


freefall

by Crocodillia



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro
Genre: Don't get me wrong i love staja but i'm such a simp for steli dynamics too eee, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, No beta reader, angel au, this is really just self satisfaction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crocodillia/pseuds/Crocodillia
Summary: ON HOLD, BACK SOON!!Bad luck is what causes Elijah to be struck by lightning.Coincidence is what causes him to crash through the roof of a house belonging to one specific person.And fate -Elijah’s never believed in fate, but maybe this was written for them all along.-Steve just believes karma has finally caught up with him.(An AU in which an angel is forced to take back the life he ran away from, whilst a human heals the wings he’d put on him.)
Relationships: Steve Palchuk/Eli Pepperjack
Comments: 40
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm causes Eli to crash in Arcadia. Steve has no idea what he's dealing with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oml hi I'm so excited that you're even reading this author's note! :D
> 
> This is my first Arcadia fic! I'm genuinely a huge multishipper when it comes to Arcadia but I just love the Creepslayerz dynamics so I thought I'd pay tribute to them with this fic!
> 
> Huge thank you to all the angels in the steve/eli tag who inspired me a lot to write this. I'm so grateful - genuinely, if you've written a Steli fic there is a very high chance I've read it and simped like crazy :'D so this fic is really for all of you!

The storm has finally caught up with Arcadia, and it’s been forecast to be a big one.

The clouds roll in early afternoon. The Friday afternoon is almost instantly forgotten in favour of scurrying home before the heavens open. Darkness fills the sky, bringing humidity with it as they rumble threateningly. Nobody wants to be outside in Arcadia with this weather and lack of light to pave the way. It seems that some residents decide to take their chances with walking home, scurrying down the roads with jackets held tightly around themselves, scarves thrashing with the suddenly aggressive wind.

Hoods and collars are turned up, shoes splatter in the puddles as there’s an immediate run to escape the first spatterings of water - desperate to enter their houses where warmth and safety from the storm awaits. Umbrellas are practically useless as the wind picks up. The roads jam up with cars, raindrops running down shiny surfaces and illuminated by headlights. The entire town glistens under rain and street lights - occasionally lit up with a split of lightning down the sky. A rumble of thunder shakes the town as the rain worsens.

And whilst everyone is huddled up asleep at home, a figure watches.

The lightning occasionally illuminates the silhouette where it’s crouched upon the heights of Arcadia, observing the town fall asleep. It squats there, balanced on the balls of its feet, eyes occasionally reflecting the headlights crawling like glowing lines of ants below it.

He’s waiting.

Patience has always been one of Elijah’s strong points. He can crouch for hours just watching and analysing. The wind tugs at him, but his wings constantly adjust to it to keep his balance - feathers twitching and spreading as the rain bounces from them.

The weather is irritating, but it provides him the best cover whilst he searches for his assignment. Less humans out means more humans asleep at home. Elijah casts his eyes across the frankly pathetic little town from his vantage point, wondering why he’s been assigned here. There can’t be much need for a heavenly presence here, he thinks to himself. It may be a dump, but the town moves on as one.

He flutters his wings so his helmet materialises over his face and head, adjusts his feet, and finally uncoils his legs, soaring up into the cloud cover - enough to hide him from any Arcadians dumb enough to try star-gazing tonight, but still at a point where he can watch and let his essence tug him towards where he needs to go.

The thing about these assignments is how frustratingly vague they can be.

Maybe in a previous life Elijah would have much preferred to have written everything out step by step so he knows exactly what order he needs to do things in order to achieve the best result possible, but that’s not how angels work.

He frowns as he tucks his wings close to his back before spreading them again so he lowers his altitude slightly. Interesting, he thinks to himself, looking at the roads shiny from the rain and the bare canals. Assignments tend to mirror paths in previous life, Elijah knows, so of course, there’s some reason for him to be here.

Still, it doesn’t mean Arcadia isn’t a dump.

No, this isn’t good enough. He can’t establish where he needs to go from here. 

Elijah closes his wings and darts down, snapping them back open again to slow his dive and flapping them a few times before he places his feet on the roof. His helmet vanishes so he has a wider range of vision whilst he’s on the ground. He exhales, pushing his hands through his soaking wet hair to move it out of his eyes since it keeps catching on his eyelids and obscuring his eyesight.

He cranes his neck up, shielding his eyes from the rain with a free hand, and sees the occasional silhouette and glint of an armoured figure flying over him through the clouds. More angels with different assignments, he thinks, and can’t help feeling a little jealous. The way they fly with such purpose, not even faltering - they know exactly where they need to go and have no need to roof-hop to reestablish a connection with their assignment.

He ducks behind the chimney stack of the roof he’s landed on as a car drives down the road, only peeking out for a second to see if it’s gone. The rain is so heavy it’s starting to seep through his feathers and drip down his chin in a stream, so it takes a lot more effort to get his way back off the roof and into the air. His helmet, responding to his flight patterns, rematerialises over his face to stop the rain getting in his eyes.

Elijah grits his teeth, fighting against the wind and rain to get above the clouds before his wings get too wet to the point he won’t be able to fly until they’re dry again. Anyway, this town is giving him the creeps and this weird uncomfortable knot in his stomach that he can’t decide whether he likes or not - a bad mixture when he’s already feeling cold and slightly airsick. He’ll re-establish his plan when he’s got the sun on his back. 

He soars for a few minutes, following the roads. His shadow flashes over a building that can only be the dentist’s from the garish set of enormous false teeth upon the roof. The light from the street lamps cast orange highlights on them. Elijah squeaks, now definitely uncomfortable. The lack of memories from any life he’d had before his angel status isn’t helping with his doubt at the situation. Elijah doesn’t know whether his memories would have helped him with his assignment or made it more difficult by adding personal elements to it - but he’s in the same boat as everyone else. No angel has their memories. It just makes things more convenient. 

An in and out job. No sidetracking.

He pulls himself up with a powerful stroke of his wings, still squinting through the rain as if his assignment is just going to wave at him and call him right on over - and maybe offer him a towel, Elijah thinks drily, ruffling his wings airborne again to shake excess water.

Just as he’s about to take a few extra beats to get up higher and follow the tug in the centre of his chest - faint and pathetic, showing he’s about as far from where he needs to be as possible - it’s gone. He immediately throws his wings open to stop his path, hovering in the air and turning his body to look around with a frown. 

Well that’s odd, his mind says, but he doesn’t get to finish the thought before white light blinds him and an excruciating jolt of agony strikes him in the neck and down his back. A scream is ripped from his throat as he convulses - a high pitched howl that echoes around his helmet - but it’s swallowed by an additional rumble of thunder. He hasn’t felt pain like that - not ever - and his entire body seizes as he fights to move his wings, but his mind completely gives out.

He plummets.

An angel struck from the sky.

-

Steve isn’t sleeping.

He lies there, staring at the football he’s tossing up in the air with one hand and catching. Toss, catch. Toss, catch. His other arm is pinned under his head where he’s leaning on it, slowly going numb from the weight. 

Still, he focuses on the football. Toss, catch. The object makes a tapping sound when it hits his fingers. He focuses on throwing and catching that thing like it’ll be enough to drown out the thunder. He’d rather take the weather as a personal challenge to his pride - he sure as fuck isn’t going to let it get the better of him.

The thunder roars.

Steve fights back a flinch, fumbling as he goes to catch the football.

“Fuck you, storm.” He snaps, glaring with bloodshot eyes at the football, squeezing it - willing it to break, but all it’s doing is making his fingertips hurt.

Light flashes past his curtains and he tosses the ball to the side, favouring curling towards the wall in a fetal position. The doors are closed and the world is dark, and yet the King of the hallways and top of the food chain is cowering in his room like a frightened puppy.

It’s just sound. Just an occasional loud sound followed by - yeah. Just sound and a bit of flashing light. Like he’s at the movies, right? He keeps telling himself, bringing his knees up to his chest and pulling his pillow over his head.

But it’s just the atmosphere. The air is charged - and he’d never admit it - but he’s fucking terrified. It’s charged with this feeling that something is off - and it doesn’t help with the constant sound of the rain and the dark eating at his room and the puncture of the noise and the bright light. His breathing keeps catching in his throat and his heart is thudding frantically at his ribs. It keeps jumping every time the thunder roars. He hates it - he fucking  _ hates  _ it - as much as Steve keeps convincing himself that he’s at home on his bed and with a pillow over his face all he can remember is how his hair goes into his eyes when it’s plastered to his skull from the rain. How it’s frozen his skin under a thin layer of water whilst he watches a concrete river.

The thunder booms.

“Stop it.” Steve hisses into the pillow.

If there’s one thing Steve can’t bend to his will, it’s nature herself - and he knows that. But it won’t stop him from being defiant to hide his terror.

_ Boom. _

The clouds rumble again.

Steve actually whimpers that time, pushing the pillow further onto his face so he can barely breathe.

“Stop!” The word is muffled, but of course, the storm listens to no-one. Especially not Steve Palchuk.

He can’t inhale. His body is crying out for oxygen but he’s so agitated from the sound and the flashes of lightning that he doesn’t want to remove himself from the confined feeling his pillow is granting him. His heart continues to thrum violently, made only worse by the knowledge that he can’t hide his fear.

Steve won’t cry. He  _ will not  _ cry. 

Closed doors or not, Steve Palchuk does not cry. He will not give into this storm. All things have passed before, and this will pass too. He just needs to suffer until it’s over, and then he can emerge and pretend he never had to give up his throne to the storm in the first place -

A splintering crash makes the entire house shake, taking Steve by so much surprise he screams, flying upright and thrashing from the shock so violently he falls off the bed. Dust and a tiny bit of debris falls from the ceiling and clatters around him, such is the force of the blow.

He lies there for a second, shaking like a leaf from his immediate spike of heart rate. He refuses to move, curled in a ball with his trembling hands held so tightly over the back of his head he’s pulling his hair.

The power goes out. Steve’s bedside light blinks from existence, causing him to shriek and back away again. 

Did lightning strike the roof? He asks himself, still trying to form a coherent thought, but he’s just so terrified that all he can do is rock and whimper to himself as he tries to turn his phone torch on. The tiny bulb illuminates the carpet in front of him, but it’s a weak white light and gives him no comfort, opposed to his warm yellow bedside lamp.

The phone torch only darkens the shadows. He almost prefers it when it was dark. Steve fumbles around for his baseball bat - it’s usually propped up just over there on his bedside table. His hands are still shaking and he initially knocks it over, the clatter making him jump again since he’s so tense.

Steve looks down at his phone and scrolls down, hovering a thumb over his mom’s number, then Coach’s. Mom, then Coach. He can’t seem to bring himself to call them. What the fuck is he even going to say to them? That he’s spooked by the storm and he thinks lightning struck the house? No, he can’t appear as anything other than The Palchuk in front of Coach at risk of it getting out at school. What if Coach lets spill that Steve was curled up and crying like a baby in his room because of the storm?

His reign would be over. 

And a King never backs down from danger.

So he closes the contact app, holds the phone in one hand and the bat in the other, and forces in an inhale. It catches about four times on the way in, and shakes when he exhales the breath.

“C’mon, Palchuk.” He hisses to himself, knocking the bat against his forehead to try and snap himself out of his terrified paralyzation, but it only makes him wince with a squeak of pain. It doesn’t do a single thing to calm his nerves. “Get it together, Palchuk!”

He’s just going to go up to the attic and check if the damage is bad enough to actually warrant calling his mom and Coach back from their weekend out. And then, he thinks to himself, creeping out of the room and still darting the pathetic phone torch around as if he’s looking for something to jump out and kill him, he can say he lived through a lightning strike to boost his ego. Said ego is about as impressive as a frightened mouse at the moment - so Steve bites the inside of his cheek to try and bring himself back down to the mortal realm since his terror is making him practically astral project.

The stairs up to the attic creak, every tiny noise making him flinch, immediately pause, and use his torch to look around rapidly before even daring to attempt another step. It seems to get colder the further he gets up, causing Steve to shudder even more than he already is from sheer fright. A draught of freezing air and dampness sweeps through and chills him through the thin fabric of his night clothing.

“Shit.” Steve exhales through his teeth as rain flecks his face from indoors as he cranes his neck to see the attic door swinging open and banging from the wind. 

Clearly, the damage is fucking bad if it’s raining indoors. Steve tries to recall if it’s possible for lightning to strike in the same place twice. Sure, there’s that fucking dumb quote that says it can’t - but an annoying niggling part in his mind is trying to convince him that he heard somewhere that it’s a myth.

The wind howls again and more rain splatters down the stairs as it’s blown through the attic, and Steve shivers, still holding the bat tightly in one hand. Well, he can’t stand here frozen on the stairs forever. His mom and Coach won’t be back for hours, even if he calls them now. He might as well deal with the issue best he can now and assess the situation later when there’s no storm causing him to piss his pants.

Risking a peek through the door, Steve’s trembling increases tenfold from the freezing wind and rain blowing into his face and making his nose and eyelids numb. He squints to protect his eyes, his torch cutting through the gloom -

Yeah. There’s a massive fucking hole in the roof.

Steve swears under his breath, moving the hand with the phone in around to assess the damage. Another gust of wind through the roof drenches him to the skin. Steve spits water from his mouth and looks up at the hole in the roof. Shit. If he leaves it as it is then the water damage isn’t worth thinking about. Maybe if he finds a tarp or something in the garage and nails it up that’ll do the trick until morning - 

What Steve wasn’t expecting in his problem solving moment despite his fear and the cold was the pile of rubble under the gaping maw in the roof to move.

So he does whatever any normal person would do in that situation, and screams the fucking house down before running for his life.

He slips down the stairs and tumbles the last few, landing very roughly - but he doesn’t even notice the pain in his desperation to get away. He’s probably woken up every neighbour in the entire street with his wailing and shrieking.

It takes him a little while to get his thoughts together through his frenzy and realise he’s the one with the bat and the gorgeous muscles and whatever moved just fell through the roof, for God’s sake - and it’s barely moving. So it’s hurt, right? He clearly has the advantage.

But Steve has been on edge about creatures of unknown origin since he’d caught a gross frog-lizard hybrid thing in his garage, which had subsequently attacked him and tried to bite his face off. And then there was that incident in summer school where he’d seen Jim Lake Jr fighting a monster in the school corridors when Steve was running from Senor Uhl in a mole costume.

He’s still annoyed about that summer school incident. He shouldn’t have even been there anywhere - but it was better taking the blame for the destruction after the frog-lizard hybrid garage thing had escaped from his bag than trying to explain it in the first place.

On the slightly less bleak side, if he hadn’t brought the creature to school in the first place to look for answers, he wouldn’t have found out about the Trollhunters (who explained to him that what he’d found was actually a goblin. Still gross).

Now he thought about it, since finding out about the Trollhunters, stranger things have happened in Arcadia than lightning striking his roof.

Or something falling  _ through  _ his roof.

Part of Steve really,  _ really  _ wants to call the Trollhunters and tell them how much he’s freaking out and leave the mysterious thing unconscious in his attic to the professionals. But again, this is his pride on the line.

He’s got to think about this logically, as much as his instinct is telling him to run back in that room and bash the unidentified creature a few times with his bat to make sure it’s not going to try and kill him.

He can’t scream for help from the Trollhunters only for them to turn up and it being a pigeon or something. He would absolutely never hear the end of that. Steve Palchicken, afraid of birds. Nope. Not happening.

Even if it was something to do with the Trollhunters, Steve knows that not all Trolls are bad. What if he beats it to death and it turns out to be - uh - the tubby one’s pet? Also not a good outcome. Steve needs to deal with this calmly and professionally whilst he investigates what exactly is lying in a pile of rubble in his attic.

He’s taking the bat with him. Not a chance he’s going back in there without it.

Steve swallows hard, pushes his bangs out of his eyes, and tightens his finger around the bat. Lifting it aloft, he pokes the door of the attic open again, holding it there with the bat as he casts his phone light over the rubble.

It’s not moving anymore.

_ Great, _ Steve thinks.  _ It’s dead.  _

He isn’t sure how to feel about that. He wonders if he’ll get arrested for googling how to hide a body.

Still fighting past the rain and the wind, Steve reaches out the bat and prods the pile of rubble. It makes a noise that time. A very weak whimper.

Steve jumps back with a shriek, raising the bat again. Okay, so it’s not dead. The hand around the bat is shaking so much he can barely hold it. For a second, Jim yelling at him for beating whatever this is to death flashes in front of his vision and he knows even for himself he’s behaving irrationally. It’s very badly injured - possibly dying, and Steve has no idea what it is.

“Take a breath, Palchuk.” He whispers to himself, and obeys his own order, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

First things first. He’s got to stop this rain before he can deal with - whatever that is. It seems in no hurry to move, so Steve thinks he can leave it alone for a second whilst he grabs a tarp and a hammer from downstairs. He has to step over the rubble in order to reach up and pull the corners of the tarp over the hole in the roof. The wind keeps giving him grief and he can’t hammer and hold his phone at the same time so he’s mostly guessing whilst he slams nails into the roof. He hits himself on the fingers with the hammer multiple times and keeps crying out in pain and swearing under his breath, but soon, his disgusting handiwork is somewhat effective. The rain isn’t getting in that much anymore, although Steve is completely soaked. The wind rattles at the tarp, but it seems secure.

Now, time to address the - whatever that is - in the room.

“Hey.” Steve hisses, grabbing the bat and poking it again, and it groans loudly. Yep, that sounds like it hurts. Maybe he shouldn’t poke it until he realises what’s wrong with it. “Hey!”

It doesn’t move, so Steve drops the bat, thinking it’s clearly in no shape to hurt him even. His hands are shaking as he sweeps rubble to the side and lifts the bigger bits of roof debris to put them to the side and see exactly what he’s dealing with.

As he clears the pile of rubble, he sees more of it. A hand. It’s got five fingers and pale skin. Steve frowns, tapping it, and the fingers twitch. Okay, not so bad this far. An arm. Only two of them. Gold glints through the wreckage, and Steve scrabbles to clear it so he can see it in the reduced light. Wow, this thing is shining.

Steve brushes dust and soot away to see golden metal gleaming. An abdomen, armoured shoulders - for a second he wonders whether Jim got an armour upgrade and this is just some kind of sick joke, but it’s too small to be Jim. He frowns, pushing another lump of plaster and wood to the side - and he can’t see a face. There’s a white and gold helmet covering the face and head, engraved patterns in the metal glinting. Steve reaches to wipe dust from it and it shines so brightly in the lightning he shuts his eyes. He attempts to pry the helmet off by putting his fingertips under the ridge where it ends under the chin, but it refuses to budge.

Okay. So he’s dealing with an unconscious, armoured human slumped in the middle of his attic. Although Steve can’t see its face, there’s nothing that seems to indicate it’s anything other than a human. The armour is odd, sure, but Steve has, of course, witnessed way weirder stuff.

“Hey.” Steve says, tapping on the helmet as if he’s checking that someone’s home. “Hey, buttsnack! I don’t know why you were on my roof but it’s not funny -”

The stranger moans in pain and rolls onto its front, and the phone falls from Steve’s hand onto the floor with a clatter, obscuring the bulb from sight.

Steve is frozen there for a second - genuinely thinking his imagination and fear had gotten the better of him this time and it was just a shadow or something - but scrabbles around for the phone after a few seconds of his brain lagging. When he locates it and holds it up with shaking hands, the figure is illuminated again.

Those are wings.

Okay. Definitely not human.

Steve falls on his backside and begins edging away at the sight. The wings are ragged and torn and broken. The smell of burnt flesh finally hits Steve’s nose and he finally notices the blackened, horrific burn engulfing almost the entirety of the armoured figure’s back. It looks like someone has set fire to the white material beneath the armour and let it melt all over its pale skin. He has to fight back a dry heave just at the sight of it.

_ Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. _

“Nope. That’s a costume. Just a costume -” Steve fumbles for the bat and nudges one of the wings from where he’s cringing across the other side of the room, but even just that causes the armoured creature to convulse and scream - and it sounds horrendous. Raw agony.

Even Steve’s heart couldn’t bear that. He grinds his jaw so tightly shut that his temples hurt, his knuckles going white where they’re gripped around the bat. The creature sobs and wails again. Steve’s always gotten a kick out of hurting other people - but that’s just petty bullying, it’s all in good fun for him - but seeing something actually letting loose animalistic shrieks of agony because of him is making him want to puke.

Right. Maybe it really is time to call for some help.

After a panicked text, Steve begins pacing, not knowing what to do. This - thing - can’t stay how it is right now - right? Steve really, truly, has no clue what to do in a situation like this. Well, who does? He can’t imagine there are many people who have had a fucking winged person crashing through their roof. Regardless of whether it’s good or bad, Steve doesn’t think he can leave it on the floor still getting the brunt of the wind and rain through the tarp when it’s that badly hurt. Yeah, Steve knows he’s an asshole. But he’s not _that_ much of an asshole.

Not anymore.

“Sorry, buttsnack. This is gonna hurt.” Steve mutters, moving the last bits of rubble to the side and hesitating where he is. How is he going to get it downstairs? Yeah, it’s relatively smaller than him, but that wound is enormous - and the wings are a definite obstacle. Steve mimes a bridal carry, but realises that’s definitely not going to work since it requires him to put his hands on its back.

“Okay. Fireman carry it is.” Steve mumbles, trying not to look at the enormous burn wound as he kneels by its armoured head and slides his hands under its armpits. 

As Steve pulls its tiny broken frame up to standing height, it wails and moans with so much pain and agony in its voice is making Steve’s heart physically twist like someone is wringing it out. He shifts his weight to his right leg, grabs the winged figure’s right hand with his left, and drapes it over his shoulder. With his head under its right armpit, Steve wraps his arm around the back of its right knee. He then squats down and positions its body on his shoulders, trying to equally distribute its body weight on each side. The worst part about the whole thing is that Steve keeps muttering “sorry, sorry.” whenever it makes a noise of pain but it doesn’t seem to hear him or understand him. The noises even stop at one point as Steve starts carefully carrying it down the stairs, and Steve panics, thinking it’s died on his shoulders, but he can still hear a rattling breath in its helmet and a thudding heart against his back. It’s still alive, for now, but the pain of being moved was too much for it and it’s passed out again.

Steve has no idea what to do next when he carefully places its broken body on his bed so it’s lying on its front and its crushed, burnt back and wings are facing the ceiling. He has to sit down for a second to catch his breath and also gather his thoughts before he starts panicking again.

“Steve, you idiot.” He hisses to himself, slapping himself on the cheek. “Get it together, Palchuk!”

The slap does its job and he looks up how to treat burns. The site says to take the person to hospital if the burn is larger than his hand - and Steve knows this isn’t an option, despite the burn covering almost the entirety of its neck, shoulders and back. Charred skin is not a good sign either. Steve is not thrilled at the prospect but swallows down his panic trying to rise up in the form of vomit and forces himself to look up what types of burns look like. No way is Steve Palchuk going to let squeamishness get the better of him. It looks similar to examples of electrical burns, Steve thinks, forcing himself to look at the example images and the burn in front of him. 

Maybe he wasn’t wrong before. Anything flying in this storm and wearing this amount of metal has a death wish, clearly, Steve realises as he glances down at the soot covering the armour.

Steve gets as far as running cool water from a cup over the burn, not caring that his bed is getting soaked, before the Trollhunters finally arrive (having taken their fucking time). Steve jumps with a yelp when Claire steps into his room using her staff, followed by Jim, the tubby one, and the two trolls.

“You could at least warn me before you do that.” Steve snaps at her, and Claire gives him an icy glare.

“You’re the one asking for help -” Claire starts returning back, but is quickly interrupted by Jim, who is bowed over the figure on Steve’s bed.

“What  _ is  _ that?” Jim asks, tensing so his armour clinks and Daylight threatens to materialise in his hands.

Steve instantly forgets Claire and darts between Jim and the winged creature. “It’s hurt, buttsnack! It fell through my roof an hour ago, but you didn’t seem in a hurry to get here!”

“Through your roof?” The tubby one - Toby - yelps a bit too loudly for Steve, and instinct makes him want to shove Toby in a closet due to a lack of lockers in their surroundings, but no sooner does he think it, he immediately feels that sickening guilt cripple his stomach and ribcage. It’s always been there: in some instances it gets worse and in some cases Steve is numb enough to ignore it. 

The enormous Troll with green fur gives the creature a large sniff, drawing in its scent through his nose so the feathers on its wings ruffle.

“Not Troll.” Arrrgghh mumbles, moving his bulk to the side so the other troll can get a better look at it.

“Great grumbling gruesomes.” Blinky mutters, bringing his face close to the unconscious creature to take in all of its form with his various eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Nothing like it?” Claire asks, her mouth slightly open as she runs her eyes up and down the broken wings.

“Winged Trolls are rare enough.” Blinky explains, reaching out with a stony hand to touch one of the wings, but Steve reacts fast, slapping Blinky’s hand away before he can hurt it. Blinky gives him an exasperated look before beginning to pace. “Feathered wings on a Troll are completely unheard of. I’m afraid I cannot be of much use here.”

“Well  _ that’s  _ a good sign.” Steve mutters sarcastically, but finds he’s ignored as the other Trollhunters look shocked by Blinky’s realisation.

“No, it’s not.” Jim says, not noting the sarcasm as he takes another glance at it like he thinks it’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep his eyes on it. “If Blinky has no idea what it could be, then there’s a fat chance anyone else in Trollmarket will.”

“Have you tried taking the helmet off?” Toby asks, and before Steve can ever respond he’s got his fingers around the rim of the helmet and trying to wrench it off.

A surge of sudden over-protectiveness washes over Steve as he sees that and he shoves Toby to the side. Toby squeaks with shock and takes a step back as Steve glares, baring his teeth and putting his body between Toby and the winged creature.

“It’s incredibly badly hurt.” Steve snaps. “Don’t fucking touch it. And no, the helmet won’t come off.” He folds his arms. “I’ve tried already.”

“I’ve never seen engravings like this, either.” Blinky says, whipping out a miniature eyeglass to take a closer look at the armour. “Details like this in armour are impossible for Trollkind to achieve with our methods in forging.”

“Forget the armour.” Steve demands, waving his hands around to get attention back on him. “I needed help, not useless comments on what it is.” He points aggressively at Blinky. “Can you get something to help its burns?”

“I’m sure we can find something in Trollmarket.” Jim says, trying to be reassuring, but Steve has been on edge for literally a whole night now and it’s starting to affect him in the form of a migraine.

“Yeah, well, step on it.” Steve interrupts, twisting his face in a growl. “I’m staying here with it.”

“As you wish.” Blinky responds.

The Trollhunters hop through the portal one by one. Jim hesitates for a second, turning around to see where Steve is knelt at his own bedside. 

“Keep putting water on it for now.” Jim says. “And some plastic wrap if you have some.”

“Yeah, I got it.” Steve scoffs, not looking at him as he continues gently pouring water from the various cups on the massive wound.

There’s silence for a second aside from the water splashing and shallow breathing both from Steve and the winged creature. Steve thinks they’re alone until Claire quips a little “Nice shirt.” before the portal snaps shut. He stops pouring the water for a second to look down and realises that he’s wearing an old shirt as nightclothes. It has a platypus on it.

At least they’d been more focused on what had fallen through Steve’s roof rather than the fact he was wandering around the house in his underwear and an ugly platypus shirt practically shitting himself because of the storm.

Steve swears at Claire under his breath and continues to pour water over the burns. The trickle of the steady stream of water, strangely, seems to drown out the noises of the storm.

“When you wake up, don’t kill me, buttsnack.” Steve mutters out loud, watching a droplet work its way down the feathers before it finally falls onto his hand. “I’ll be  _ really  _ pissed if you kill me.”

He wants to joke about a locker. But just thinking about that makes his stomach churn. So he shakes his head to clear it, sighs, and goes back to pouring water.

The sound of muffled tears and water splashing onto burnt skin and feathers cancel each other out under the noise of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is set soon after Steve finds out about the Trollhunter shenanigans... but Eli has been dead for several years beforehand, so obviously the Creepslayerz unification doesn't happen. Don't worry, all shall become clear as the fic progresses.
> 
> Please do leave a comment if you enjoyed so I know to keep writing! Hope you're all staying safe <3 
> 
> \- Croc


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eli is confused as to why this human is helping him. Steve tries to confront the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahah yeah here's another chapter because I have no self control I love these two sm <3
> 
> I was not expecting such a response on this fic so quickly - I'm incredibly flattered, it makes my day to see so many people enjoying it!! (already working on making official designs for angel!eli because I not only make mediocre fics but mediocre art as well -)
> 
> Thanks so much! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Croc

When Elijah wakes up, he quickly wishes he hadn’t. Agony wracks his entire body and he can’t even convulse from it, it hurts that much. He has to fight back the urge to vomit because he is very aware of the helmet over his face and manages to urgently tap the side of it so it vanishes and he finally has cool air on his face.

For a few minutes he puts his head back slowly and lets a sob of agony wrack his small frame. His entire spine feels like it’s been ripped out and bashed around a few times before being put back - in several pieces. The pain only gets worse the more he pulls himself from unconsciousness. The surface he’s on is soft. Waking up into softness is something he knows he hasn’t experienced for a long time. He doesn’t need sleep, for one - yet it’s all he wants as he feels excruciating stabbing down his wings into his shoulders and the burning, pulsing feeling of his back on fire.

Elijah is used to having no memories, but the fact he has no idea where he is or why he’s lying here practically paralysed from the agony is frightening him. There’s an weirdly familiar aura around him - he can barely see past the blurriness in his eyes from tears, although he’s in no mindset to figure out why that is. His helmet responds to his fear by re-closing over his face and Elijah lets it - allowing the metal to cut him off from wherever he is.

A groan from something that definitely wasn’t him makes him freeze - almost forgetting to breathe - and he watches through the slits in his helmet. Playing dead seems to be his best option until he can bring himself to move - he’s got no idea what state his wings are in, and he doubts he’ll be able to escape a dangerous situation.

He watches, moving his eyeballs as far to the side as he can without moving his head to see the figure that had previously groaned stretch its arms above its head where it’s sat on the floor against the wall. Elijah’s heart rate is going a mile a minute from terror - and it’s mainly from the fact he’s in so much pain and he doesn’t know how or whether this other guy is responsible for it.

He can’t decipher a face through his helmet, keeping his eyes on the movement as the guy rubs at his eyes, yawns obnoxiously, and cracks his neck with another stretch. A human, he realises in horror. No. No. This is the worst possible situation. He’s been  _ seen. _

Actually, the fact he’s been seen isn’t the worst of it. The fact Elijah is lying in a human’s house on a human bed injured and unable to move whilst the human is moving around him is the worst part. How many humans have seen him? How many of them have flocked to see the freak with wings? When is he going to get shipped off to be experimented on for eternity? What - 

“‘Morning.” The human says, his voice strained from tiredness as Elijah watches him pass the bed and exit the room.

What is he supposed to say?  _ Good morning to you too? _

He favours continuing to play dead. The human returns, kneeling down next to the bed and putting down whatever he’s got in his hands onto the floor. Elijah’s breathing catches as he stares through the eyes of his helmet - the white visors over the eye sockets mean he can see out but the human won’t be able to see how much he’s crying in agony or even know he’s actually awake and can see everything.

The human stays knelt and it takes all of Elijah’s willpower not to shrink away when he reaches over with a damp cloth and starts wiping down the helmet. Dirt and grime disappears and he can finally see clearly out now the dark layer of soot over his eyes is cleaned away. Handsome, boyish features enter his vision and he can finally see his captor fully.

But where he’s expecting the worst kind of human, he’s really just faced with a guy in that awkward phase between boy and man. His face seems calm yet is furrowed at the same time, concentration in his deep brown eyes as he focuses on what he’s doing. Eyebrows drawn together, a tooth snagging his bottom lip subconsciously as he obviously concentrates on the helmet as he wipes the cloth down it - and striking blond hair ruffled from sleep hanging in his eyes.

Elijah feels his stomach set. He’s only ever seen angels with that level of blondeness - something like that is so uncommon with humans, yet there’s nothing to suggest that this guy is in fact an angel. He’s just a normal, kinda attractive guy who’s cleaning him up ever so gently, like he’s afraid the slightest movement will hurt him.

And there’s something else. Elijah frowns behind his helmet as he watches the guy work, focusing on each feature of his face and analysing them in his usual way. The loose strands of his golden bangs catching on his equally blond eyelashes. The darker brown lines in his irises. The sharp edge of his jaw. How is this so foreign yet so familiar at the same time? Elijah wonders for a second whether this guy resembles some angel he knows and that’s what’s making him feel so weird, but doesn’t think any more of it when he realises he has no idea.

“Okay, buttsnack. Time to redo your bandages.” The guy says, looking away from where he’s intently staring into Eli’s, although he has no idea he was even making eye contact.

_ Buttsnack? _

Elijah’s heart reacts incredibly strangely to that word. A mixture of fear and recognition, even though it’s a mash of two random words that don’t make sense. Yeah, that definitely was weird. He forces out the quietest exhale he can, the warm air filling his helmet.

And then, stabbing and ripping. Elijah can’t fight back a wail of agony as the blond guy stands over his back. It feels like he’s actually tearing his skin off, and Elijah clenches his hands together with another shriek at the feeling of it, threatening to pass out again from fear, pain and shock.

“Oh - oh shit.” The guy says, and the pain stops momentarily aside from a dull pulse, and he crouches down next to Elijah’s face. “You’re awake. Sorry, buddy - I didn’t mean to hurt ya.”

Elijah can’t help his breathing from heaving and shuddering from the pain, and the blond guy genuinely looks incredibly distressed from the noises he’s making, staring so intently through the eye holes in Elijah’s helmet that his heart skips - like for a second he sees right through.

“I have no idea if you can understand me.” The guy says, and his voice is relatively quiet - although Elijah can sense that this is a guy who is relatively used to using his booming voice to get what he wants. A leader, clearly - although whilst Elijah squirms and mewls in pain, he stays quiet, like his volume might hurt him further. “There was a storm last night and I think you were struck by lightning. You fell through my roof.”

There’s silence as Elijah tries to process this information, trying not to move his neck and arms as this only sends more agony through his back and wings. The guy cracks a tiny smile, as if he’s trying to be reassuring, but it’s a bit strained past his clear concern.

“I need to take your bandages off.” The guy explains slowly and carefully to him. “And then redress them. I had - I had someone splint up your wings last night.”

Who? Who splinted his wings? Are his wings that bad? And there are  _ more _ humans who know he’s here? Elijah thinks in a panic, and from the way he tenses, the guy immediately backtracks, realising he’s phrased that wrong.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t told people.” He says, and Elijah feels fingertips brushing over the back of his hand reassuringly. It makes his heart stutter. “Just a few who are more qualified to help you than me. You’re safe here. Nobody else knows.”

Is he supposed to believe this random human he’s only just met? Elijah panics, but feeling the gentle stroke of this human’s fingertips over the back of his hand tells him all he needs to know. If he really wished harm on Elijah, he’d be stuck in a research lab already. He’s so weak at the moment that if this human had wanted to hurt him, he’d surely done it already. Elijah forces another glance into the human’s dark eyes, and there’s such a quiet sadness in them that isn’t supposed to be read - but it still strikes Elijah deeply. Humans are creatures of such sorrow, yet this large blond still smiles past it and continues to wrap his larger hand around the hand of something he doesn’t understand.

The human takes Elijah’s silence as permission, and goes back to removing the bandages. Elijah bites back as much of his audible agony as he possibly can, yet he still sees how much the guy’s hands are shaking and how he flinches every time Elijah makes a noise. His skin feels like it’s still on fire from the lightning, but as soon as the bandages are off and the human pours cool water over it, the flames are doused and he can somewhat relax and unclench his fists.

Elijah forces in a shaky breath as the guy snaps on a latex glove and tips something green with a thick consistency from a clay jar into his hand. That’s odd, Elijah thinks, feeling himself start tensing up again. What kind of human medicine was that supposed to be? He sure as anything wasn’t going to let that anywhere near his wings - but the human reads his sudden distress and starts talking to him in a calm voice.

“S’okay, buddy.” He continues speaking as he spreads it over Elijah’s back with utmost care. It feels ice cold and so, so nice on his burns. “Just Troll medicine. This stuff is a million times better than anything humans can give you.”

Trolls? Elijah asks himself. Since when did humans have contact with Trolls? The last time Elijah checked, he couldn’t remember the two worlds mixing. Angels make it their business to be informed of both Troll and Human affairs, yet he can’t for the life of him recall if that had changed recently.

Almost the second the human redresses his back, Elijah knows he can’t stay. He’s got to find his assignment, get that done as soon as possible, and fly back and not only deliver his results, but also the news that humans in Arcadia have interacted with Trolls. Or, maybe just the one human.

Begrudgingly, Elijah realises he can’t leave even if he wants to. For one, he’s so badly injured he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to sit up, let alone fly. And second, he needs to find out more information about human and Troll interactions in Arcadia before he can report back. He can’t return with half-assed information, right? Angels never do things half-assed.

Well, a full investigation is clearly needed on top of his recovery. Elijah decides to himself that he’ll take it upon himself to complete that investigation whilst he heals up - so he’s not sat twiddling his thumbs whilst he wills his wings to get better. Maybe he’ll even get promoted, he thinks with a tiny bit of glee. No more assignments and field work! No more shit-hole towns and dealing with humans! 

The human has been talking to him as he’s worked around Elijah’s wounds, although he hasn’t really been paying as much attention to him as he was before. It’s kinda due to the reason that Elijah thinks he’s breaking some kind of sacred rule by looking at him for too long.

“My name’s Steve, by the way.” The guy says, using his gloved hand to hook under Elijah’s largest feather’s and lift them so, so gently so he can get underneath them. 

That steals a gasp from Elijah’s lips, and Steve immediately notices and lets go of his wing, like he thinks he’s hurt him again, but he actually hasn’t. 

Steve. Is that ringing a bell? Maybe. Elijah knows he shouldn’t dig into his memories, because nothing ever good comes from it. Angels who recall things are the ones who usually end up being unfit for duty.

Yet he can’t help it. The name Steve is now out in the open and rattling around Elijah’s helmet. His breathing is shaky just from the name. And he shouldn’t react like that at all to a simple, common human name. 

“Do you have a name?” Steve asks, taking the glove off and tossing it into a trash can before kneeling down next to Elijah’s face again. 

His heart skids when he looks into that face again. The name and the face make a satisfying click together in Elijah’s head, like they’re two jigsaw pieces. Way to jog a memory, he grumbles to himself. It’s fine - he’ll just forget all of this has ever happened and mark it as a one off, weird memory blip.

Steve looks like he’s fixated on the patterns on Elijah’s helmet, but when his eyes flick back down to make direct eye contact with him, it takes Elijah by surprise again and he shifts his head. Steve watches the movement, before he reaches to the side and picks up his phone.

Shit. Is he going to start taking pictures? Or start livestreaming? Or call the authorities? Elijah is definitely starting to panic now, but Steve - weirdly enough for a blockhead - reads him well despite his lack of facial expressions and hushes him down.

“Just looking up angel names. You are an angel, right?” Steve asks, the thumb tapping on the screen hesitating for a second as he looks up at Elijah.

That’s obvious enough to anyone, including a human who doesn’t seem to be the sharpest tool in the shed, Elijah thinks dryly. There’s no point in hiding it. Steve hasn’t done anything inherently harmful or completely idiotic thus far, so Elijah doesn’t really see any point in hiding the truth. He’s definitely going to be stuck here for a while. It may as well be in the open between him and his random saviour, so he stiffly moves his head in a nod.

Steve’s eyes widen and a dumb look of absolute ecstacy edges onto his face. “Holy shit. You  _ can  _ understand me - fuck.” Steve swears under his breath, suddenly looking a mixture of embarrassed and fearful that Elijah is going to spring to his feet and smite him. “Maybe I shouldn’t say ‘holy shit’ anymore - wait - forget I said that. That didn’t count - fuck. Wait! That one didn’t count either -”

Elijah just watches this one-sided interaction with his jaw slightly dropped. Yep. He’s dealing with a moron. Of every roof he had to crash through -

He sets his eyebrows looking at this blond idiot muttering to himself as he abandons his attempts to backtrack on his cusses, favouring tapping at the keyboard of his phone. It makes tiny clicking noises.

“What d’ya reckon?” Steve asks, holding the screen out in front of Elijah’s helmet. “List of biblical angels? Or baby names?”

Elijah severely doubts his name is going to be on Wikipedia, but he’s not prepared to tell this human that. Steve doesn’t wait for an answer, flicking onto one of the pages (Elijah doesn’t know which one) and starts scrolling, reading out the names as he goes down.

“Arakiel. Ariael. Azreal. Wow. Okay - lots of you under A.” Steve mumbles more to himself, occasionally looking up at Elijah to see if any of the names get a reaction. “I don’t think you’re Gabriel. I expected Gabriel to - y’know.” Steve looks up and down him as he weighs up the words in his head. “-be bigger.”

Well, that was just offensive. Who did this guy think he was, judging Elijah by his height? Yeah, Elijah might be on the - well - vertically challenged side - but height isn’t important when he’s got wings. If anything, Elijah is great at his job because he’s fast. He makes up for a lack of any intimidating features with his speed and his agility.

And Gabriel is in fact a prick. And he’s probably going to write Elijah up if he’s late back from this assignment. So there’s that as well. 

Steve sees Elijah’s bristling at that comment and laughs. He’s so obnoxious, Elijah scowls, and Steve snorts, wiping at his eyes.

“Sorry, buttsnack.” Steve says, giving him an affectionate tap on his helmet. Elijah glares at him through his eyepieces. Why is he acting so chummy? It’s  _ annoying.  _ And it just seems out of character for this guy - even though Elijah has no idea who he is.

_ (Or does he? Nope. Ignore that thought.) _

“I dunno, Angel.” Steve mutters, reading through a few more names before putting the phone on the side so he can stretch and yawn again. “None of these seem to fit you.”

_ You don’t even know me. _

Steve puts his chin on the mattress right next to Elijah’s face and sighs, staying still for a moment. He finally pushes his loose bangs out of his face and looks right into Elijah’s eyes, making him gasp. He’s looking so intently that if Elijah didn’t already know that the visor material only worked one way, he would have thought they were making direct eye contact.

“Why are you hiding in there?” Steve asks, giving Elijah’s helmet a gentle tap where his nose should be.

_ Because I’m afraid. And confused. And I don’t know why you’re helping me. You’re just a dumb human. _

“Well, I can wait.” Steve says, giving him that annoying, shit-eating grin again. Elijah hopes his scowl translates through his helmet, but if it does, Steve chooses to ignore it.

Steve gets up and starts getting himself together. Elijah watches him with curiosity as the human picks up crumpled clothing he’s tossed on the back of his desk chair and very happily puts it on despite the fact it’s getting on the unclean side. Elijah fights the instinct to turn his nose up because, hey. He knows he wasn’t always an angel. Those teenage boy habits were his once, after all. Steve hums and scatts to himself as he preens at his hair, tucking the unruly bits away and parting it following his clearly rough night spent on the floor.

Elijah feels a pang of guilt at that. Irritating or not, Steve gave up his bed and let Elijah smear soot and grime and blood over his covers. And hasn’t killed Elijah for smashing through the roof and probably causing a lot of damage, instead cleaning his back and splinting up his wings. He has to give him that.

It’s Saturday, so there’s no school, which means Steve spends hours sitting in his room and just saying whatever annoying garbage comes to his mind. He’s just talking at Elijah, not even caring he’s getting no responses. Occasionally he tosses a ball or goes on his phone but his attention never fully goes off him. Having to be subject to the non-stop chatter whilst being unable to move is unbearable at first, but it doesn’t take long for Elijah to realise he’s actually enjoying the talk, to his distaste. He can’t remember the last time someone talked about anything other than assignments.

But that was the thing about being human. You could afford to be something other than work. You can work and then play and then be with family and try something completely new or go anywhere you want. And you can talk about anything and there will at least be someone who will listen.

Elijah hasn’t thought about being human for a long time. But being in the room with Steve has made this wonder arise, followed by a sudden sadness. Angels aren’t supposed to feel negative emotions - they really have no reason to - but Steve talking about his mother and his stepdad and his friends and his football team has made Elijah wonder if he’d had that too.

And although it’s very tempting to try and dig up memories, he knows he shouldn’t. But the one uncomfortable realisation that Elijah has tried to bury since he became an angel still arises. He knows he used to be human, and now he’s an angel. So he knows he’s died at some point. But he has no idea how or why or where.

Steve reapplies Elijah’s medicine at some point during the day, still chattering mindlessly. It seems to be doing wonders, and along with Elijah’s healing factor, he wants to try sitting up. His increased healing means he’ll get better faster than a human, but it’s still slower than desirable down on Earth. 

It’s still agony all over his back and wings and Elijah can hear his bones creak as he plants his hands down on the mattress and tries to uncoil his arms to prop himself up.

“So naturally, I said - oh hold up - we’re trying to get up?” Steve immediately forgets about whatever dumb thing he’s talking about and whirls over to Elijah’s bedside. 

Elijah’s muscles give out and he falls back down with a gasp, but Steve gently props him with a strong forearm and helps lever him up as Elijah forces his body upright. He can feel the burnt skin on his back crackle and burn and he winces with a squeak of pain and Steve hesitates.

“Wanna go back down?” Steve asks, but Elijah shakes his head. Even that is agonising, causing his breathing to speed up and tears to gather in his eyes.

But something tells him Steve wouldn’t want him to give up, so he sets his jaw so hard he thinks it might crack and completely pushes himself up. A groan of pain is ripped from his throat and Steve is quick to hold him there before he collapses, and pulls Elijah into a sitting position. The pain is making his vision blur and Elijah swoons, thinking he might pass out - and again, Steve reacts fast, kneeling on the floor and steadying him with a hand on each shoulder.

“Wow. That was amazing.” Steve grins, his eyes sparkling as Elijah fights past the wooziness and slowly pulls himself away from unconsciousness. “Look at you! I doubt many people would be sitting up ten hours after being struck by lightning, huh, Angel?”

Steve’s excitement is catching and Elijah can’t help a tiny smile perking at his lips, feeling immensely proud at the praise. The nickname is irritating, though - but he can deal with it. Steve lets go of him once he’s satisfied that Elijah is stable enough and gives him another grin, flashing white teeth at him.

This guy is a stranger - and a human. And yet he’s showing Elijah such kindness despite the fact he’s probably a freak to him. To be fair, if Steve’s seen Trolls, a winged humanoid might be slightly less shocking.

Still, he can’t help but read that sadness in Steve again. It makes Elijah’s heart twinge. He’s trying so hard to hide it - and for the most part he’s succeeding through his annoying assholeishness and optimism. He wonders what this guy’s been through that could possibly justify this. And that makes that same pang of guilt for simply being there stab through him once more.

“Thank you.” He whispers. Steve at least deserves that.

His words are raspy and raw from his screaming and lack of use thereafter - and the simple phrase cracks from nervousness at speaking for the first time.

The look of utmost joy that breaks onto Steve’s face makes him practically glow like the sun, and Elijah thinks for a second that he’s so bright he might have to look away.

-

The Angel’s voice is beautiful.

And it just sounds so unsure of its own ability to speak that Steve wants to grab it by the hands and tell it how amazing it is - no,  _ he  _ is.

His voice is catching, which is fair, because Steve knows how frightened he must be. But behind that, there’s a sweet, mellow tone - sort of half-way between breaking. Steve knows he can’t contain his delight at the Angel being comfortable enough to speak to him, and the Angel seems taken aback at that, surprised at how Steve’s reacting.

“Wow.” Steve knows his jaw is dropping. “N- not a problem there, buddy.”

The Angel seems to have lapsed back into silence, favouring inspecting the armoured pieces over his wrists. Steve doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with them, but he can’t blame the Angel for checking. 

“Do you need anything? Water? Painkillers?” Steve tries to break the silence, wanting to try and tease more words from the winged creature perched on his bed. “I might have some leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry -”

The Angel looks up in surprise. Steve can sense confusion from behind that white and golden helmet. The eye shapes are slitted yet delicately flicked, and Steve is so desperate to see the eyes behind them.

“Um -” The Angel’s voice cracks again, and he just sounds so under confident that it’s heartbreaking. Especially from a creature of immense power. Steve knows that if the Angel was at his full power then he’d probably be a pile of ash on the floor - and yet, he strangely doesn’t feel threatened.

It’s very difficult for Steve to feel threatened when he’s as high up on the social food chain as he is. The only time he really feels frightened is when the threat is beyond his control. Like the Trolls. Or the storm. Yet he should feel threatened by the Angel - and he’s not. Maybe because he’s weirdly cute by the way he’s wringing his delicate hands together. And he’s little. Well, most of him is. Those enormous wings are folded tightly as they’ll go, but Steve can imagine they’re enormous at their full spread length.

“I- I don’t need to eat. Um. Or drink.” The Angel says. His voice is quiet yet it echoes because of the helmet. Steve thinks with a twist of his stomach that the Angel’s tone of voice sounds familiar somehow.

Steve blinks. “Okay.”

Well, that makes things easier. Steve lets out a tiny sigh of relief - at least he won’t have to make up a million excuses for sneaking food upstairs when Mom and Coach get home. That’s another nightmare he’s going to have to deal with when it happens. He wants to keep the harbouring of a celestial being in his room as hush-hush as possible -  _ especially  _ from his parents.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” Steve presses, still awkwardly knelt on the floor as the Angel continues to shift as if he’s trying to get comfortable - which can’t be easy with wings that big, even when folded.

The Angel tilts his head slightly, making the light catch on the gold of his helmet. Steve’s breathing is shaky as he waits for another response, just wanting to hear his soft, adorably nervous voice again. He can almost see the cogs turning under the helmet. The Angel taps his fingers on his knees, his nails clinking on the armour there.

“I want to stand.” He says, uncertainty in his tone again, and Steve can’t help his eyebrows shooting up at that.

Not “I think I want to stand” or “I want to try standing” - the Angel  _ wants  _ to stand. There’s no uncertainty in that. Just from that choice of words, Steve knows that he’s not going to be able to sway his mind, but it’s worth exercising a bit of caution.

“Already?”

“Mm.” The Angel says, and Steve thinks it would probably be inappropriate to go mom mode and insist he stay sitting down.

The Angel hesitates a second longer before he holds out his hands, indicating for Steve to help him up. He immediately emerges from his kneeling position and takes those pale hands - and his skin is so soft compared to the charred flesh that Steve’s washed pretty much all night. Steve bite his lip to hide his surprise, and the Angel’s fingers tighten around Steve’s hands as he pushes down on them to force his tiny, injured frame onto his feet. Steve tenses the muscles in his arms, pushing back on the Angel’s hands as he slowly lifts himself. His feathers make brushing noises as they slide across the covers.

The Angel winces and makes another whimper of pain, but there’s so much determination in the way he clutches onto Steve’s hands. Steve can’t help grinning as the Angel finally lifts his weight from the bed - and he immediately wobbles, his knees buckling - but Steve is prepared for that and tightens his grip around the Angel’s hands to steady him again.

“Awesome.” Steve breathes, delighted at the sight of this tiny creature he’d carried down the stairs on his shoulders standing less than a day after falling through his roof. A literal miracle in all ways, he thinks to himself.

The Angel’s chest is heaving from exertion and pain, and Steve keeps a close eye on him to see how much he’s comfortable with. He can’t help drawing his eye line to the wings - they’re so huge, even folded, that the longest feathers drag on the ground. They’re probably incredibly heavy too - so it isn’t long before the Angel wants to sit again, and Steve helps him back down so he’s comfortable.

Steve feels a bit giddy at that, because damn. Helping people feels  _ good.  _ Better than any kick he ever got by shoving people in lockers. 

Maybe this is why he’s been so attracted to the Trollhunters’ affairs? Secretly he actually wants a part of it - and not just because he wants to look badass and swing a sword around - but because of the people he can help - 

The Angel tilts his head and looks at Steve, and even though his face is hidden, Steve can almost see the smile of pride on his face past it. It’s so adorable how he’s still shaking slightly but he’s got his fists bunched in triumph. He’s practically glowing - and even though Steve can’t help feeling delight at it, a slither of a forgotten memory manages to break past and he knows it's visible on his face. The Angel relaxes his hands and Steve hears an exhale behind the visor.

“Are - are you okay?” The Angel asks, and it’s his turn to sound concerned even though he shouldn’t be - Steve is just being pathetic and weak and pretending that his issues are more important - and he’s not the one with an enormous burn engulfing his entire back -

“Um - y-yeah. It’s just -” Steve shakes his head as if to clear it before looking up at the Angel again. “You remind me of someone. That’s all -”

The Angel starts, taking Steve by surprise so he yelps in shock. The Angel is trembling again now and this time it’s not because of pride, and he forces himself to wobbly feet again despite the rattling breathing behind the helmet.

“Woah - woah! Careful -” Steve says, trying to steady it as it stumbles trying to get up, but he only gets his hands slapped away.

“I don’t know you.” The Angel snaps, his voice definitely shaking almost as much as he is, and Steve can feel the heat of the glare from those eyes hidden behind metal. “Stop acting like you care about me.”

“Wait!” Steve calls, panic entering his tone as the Angel takes a few awkward steps, trying to help it, but again he gets ignored as the Angel leans on the wall to heave in some ragged breaths, pain making the pants audible.

He reaches out again, but the steely look he gets makes him retract his offer.

“I can do it.” The Angel growls, hauling his burnt and battered body into the bathroom and slamming the door in Steve’s face.

Steve stands there, looking at the door. He waits for a few minutes, wondering what he’s supposed to do now. There’s no way he’s going to be able to climb out of the tiny bathroom window with wings that big, so there’s that.

“Are you okay in there?” Steve asks, knocking on the door.

“Define okay.” He gets a sarcastic response.

Oh, this one’s got an attitude. Steve grits his teeth before relaxing his jaw with a sigh. Oh well. He’d be in a foul mood too if he’d fallen through a roof after being literally fried. He’s tried to be better at understanding people lately, and it’s clear that this one needs space from him.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line, okay?” Steve calls into the bathroom.

Silence. Steve lets out a breath before continuing.

“I have somewhere I need to go real quick tonight. Are you okay with that?” Steve asks. “My parents won’t be back until tomorrow night. You’ll be by yourself.”

“I think I can handle being alone.” The Angel mutters, his voice muffled by the bathroom door.

Steve knows he’s just going to have to trust the unnamed Angel to do the smartest thing - which is stay put until Steve comes back. This trip absolutely cannot be avoided. There is no chance on earth that Steve will not do this - but it means leaving the Angel by itself and he won’t be there if it hurts itself or even worse - tries to fly away when it’s that badly wounded. He wonders whether it’s worth calling Jim or one of the other Trollhunters to keep an eye on it whilst he goes, but that’ll outright show the Angel that Steve doesn’t trust it - and that trust is all he wants.

“Please don’t leave.” Steve says.

The Angel scoffs behind the door. “Why would I do that?”

Steve swallows. “Because - because the neighbour across the road is a nosy bastard and if there’s anyone who’s gonna freak out at you, it’s him.”

Mm. Somewhat the truth, but not all of it. Steve really doesn’t want the Angel to leave, and not just because he’s worried he’ll be discovered. He is not graced with a response.

“I’ll be half an hour.” Steve says. He realises his forehead is pressed to the door between his hands flat on the surface.

“Later.” 

As Steve goes down the stairs and pulls a jacket and his shoes on, he can feel his nerves tugging at his stomach. He’s so worried the Angel is going to ignore his wishes and disappear and he’s never going to know what happened to it - but he’s also nervous about where he’s going.

He always is. He doesn’t think it’ll ever change.

The air is filled with that static charge again as Steve turns his collar up and exits into the darkening street. The cold nips at his skin and his exhales so it puffs in front of him. Already, he feels sick, but if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll never be able to face it.

One stop later, the darkness has fallen and the streetlamps tentatively flicker on. Steve lets his muscle memory take his body where it needs to go, even though he hasn’t dared go there outside of this date. He feels like he’s treading on forbidden ground and this is the only hour he’ll be allowed there.

Finally, his stomach turns when he realises where he is. He’s here.

Steve weaves around the other offerings already there. Flowers. Candles. Stuffed animals. Drawings. Messages. All piled and arranged on one spot on the bridge over the canal, a collage of colour on the ugly brown and grey. Steve’s eyes are already blurred, which is a good thing, because he’s unable to decipher the face of the person in the picture frame placed in the centre of the objects.

And then he’s stood there, his stomach turning as he leans over the barrier to look down into the canal. The wind is freezing, blowing through his hair and making him physically shiver. 

_ “I’m sorry.”  _

The words are whisked away. There’s only one person Steve wants to hear them, and he never will.

Steve holds his hand out, and lets the single red rose in his hand fall.

A single drop of pure crimson rests on the concrete river.

He needs to get out of here. 

Steve turns, and runs.

-

Elijah is beginning to get bored in the bathroom. It’s not comfortable at all. He tries sitting on the toilet, but there’s no room for his wings, so he drags himself to sit on the edge of the bath. There’s more room for his wings but the hard edge is making his back agonising.

He makes his helmet vanish and stares at himself in the mirror. It’s a bit of a shock seeing himself with his hair filthy and damp from sweat and eyes red from crying. He takes the opportunity to wash his face and the grime from his hair, which is excruciating when he tries to dip his head under the faucet. The freezing water is the most calming thing he’s felt all day.

When he looks up, his damp hair sticks to his forehead, so he pushes it away and watches loose droplets run down his face and drip from his chin. He’s never been in front of a mirror for this long - angels are discouraged from it so there is no room for vanity. It doesn’t matter most of the time anyway, most angels are blessed with gorgeous looks and then there’s just  _ him.  _ Elijah knows he just looks like a dumb teenage boy and it’s likely that won’t change any time soon. He glares at himself, his reflection’s pale yellow irises blurring as he feels more tears rise.

He ends up sitting in the middle of the floor to catch his breath and will the pain and tears away. He almost misses Steve’s random chatter keeping him from the cold silence. Anything to stop his mind from getting too loud.

Why is he even hiding from Steve? Part of him can’t help feeling bad about it. Steve might give off immense douche energy but he’s been nothing but kind and gentle to Elijah. He sighs, looking up at his reflection again. The whole thing has just been weird - and then Steve had said that he’d reminded him of someone he knew.

That could be a nail in the coffin for Elijah if Steve genuinely thinks that Elijah reminds him of someone. If his memories resurface, that could be a disaster for his assignment.

So Elijah silently vows to himself that when Steve’s around, he’ll keep the helmet on, and he’ll never tell Steve his name. His name and his physical features are all he’s carried on from his previous life, so if he keeps them hidden from Steve, then there’s no chance of that life resurfacing. And he’ll heal up and be out of here in a couple of weeks. Hopefully.

Now his spine is starting to properly hurt from being sat on a hard floor with his wings squashed and a back so burnt it looks like charcoal. Elijah bites his lip.

Steve shouldn’t be back for a little while. He can afford going back to the bedroom and lie down for a bit and locking himself back in the bathroom when he returns, right?

His spine twinges as if it’s agreeing with him, so Elijah grabs on the edge of the sink and pulls himself upright with another loud groan of pain. Just a couple of steps and he can lie on the soft covers and bury his face in Steve’s pillow and let the scent calm him -

Woah. Where had that come from? Elijah, annoyed at himself now, gives himself a sharp slap on a cheek to snap himself out of it, willing his inner voice to shut up and stop running rampant with these annoying and unwanted thoughts. Just find somewhere to lie down and give his back a rest, he sternly orders himself.

He takes a wobbly step, reaches for the door handle, and starts opening it.

“Hey, Angel, I hope you don’t mind but I came home early -”

_ Shit. Shit! He’s home! _

Too late, Elijah realises he’s fucked. The door swings open and he knows with a sickening jolt in his stomach that he hasn’t got his helmet over his face. He grabs for it, but it seems to be sluggish and in slow motion.

Steve goes white as he turns the corner into the bathroom. His jaw drops and the words die in his mouth. Fear flashes in those brown eyes as Elijah freezes, his head the only thing moving as he looks up.

There’s a full second of silence as Elijah starts trembling, not knowing how to react. Steve hasn’t moved save the colour draining from his face.

“P - Pepperjack.” Steve whispers, before his eyes roll back in his head and he faints, crumpling unconscious to the floor.

Elijah retracts his previous statement.

_ Now  _ he was well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'D
> 
> Please be sure to leave me a comment if you enjoyed so I know to keep writing! :) Thanks for your support everyone, stay safe!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eli has his wings cleaned. Steve lets the lies get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Another chapter for you all because I'm definitely not nervous about college tomorrow and I'm writing to feel a sense of self control when I should be sleeping ... definitely not.
> 
> But seriously, thank you so much for everyone's comments and kudos. It means a lot to me considering how much I love Arcadia. It's so refreshing to write for a completely different fandom. Thanks so much for the welcome to the fandom! :D
> 
> In this fic, all the characters are 16. Eli technically doesn't have an age but if he was alive he'd be 16 too. And there will be no NSFW here. Because somebody was gonna ask, I can bet :')
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one.

“Looks like that all nighter caught up with ya, huh?”

Jim’s voice is really not what Steve expects, or particularly wants, to be the first thing he hears when he manages to regain consciousness - yet he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. He feels his eyelids flutter, and light shoots under them as he winces, a hand flying to his head as his migraine persistently settles between his eyes.

“Wha -” Steve slurs, before his eyes snap open when he remembers. He sits upright with a shriek, suddenly gasping for air. “No - shit. Fuck -”

He feels violently ill all of a sudden when he recalls what he saw. A phantom of someone he used to know standing in the bathroom. Part of him desperately wants to think he’s just completely on edge from yesterday evening when he’d gone to the canals - but Steve knows he saw it. It can’t have been his imagination - he’d been so frightened his body had rather shut down than deal with it -

Maybe it was the fact that the face he’d seen was looking at him with fear. Again.

He heaves and slaps a hand over his mouth. Jim hops back with a grimace.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Jim says.

What’s more terrifying is how close to the truth Jim probably is.

Steve swallows back whatever’s trying to come up because of his stomach squeezing. It takes a good few minutes to reign in the panic. It’s how completely helpless he feels. This is no nightmare. It’s no memory. What he saw was reality, and he knows no amount of trying to convince himself otherwise is going to work.

How could he have possibly predicted that? Steve has tried so, so hard to try and gain some kind of forgiveness because he knows this is all his fault. He’s brought this upon himself. It was only a matter of time before his pathetic attempts to fix what he’d messed up were rejected.

The Angel must have been sent as a punishment. Reeling Steve in - lulling him into a false sense of security - 

The timing is impeccable. There is no way this is a coincidence.

He looks back at Jim. The guy is just sat there on Steve’s desk chair, looking as plain as ever. No armour, no sword, no other Trollhunters - simply waiting there for Steve to wake up by himself. How long has he been there? And how did Steve get into his room - he collapsed outside the bathroom -

“What are you doing here?” Steve snaps at Jim, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“You tell me! I got a call from your phone saying you needed help.” Jim shrugs, and Steve immediately frowns at that.

“I didn’t call you.” Steve says.

“Yeah, I know.” Jim responds, indicating to the door. “He did.”

The door creaks, and Steve immediately shrinks back when the Angel peeks around the frame, his armour illuminated by the hallway lights. Already Steve can feel his heart rate hammering, and can’t help another squeak from escaping at the sheer sight of him. His face is covered again, but the memory of seeing it keeps flashing before Steve’s vision and it’s already taken his entire willpower not to have a full blown panic attack as it is.

The Angel is here. He’s _ still here.  _ That means he’s not done with Steve, and he starts physically shivering in fear. Jim frowns, looking between Steve and the Angel and back again. The Angel is still hovering in the door.

“Y’know, considering he helped you, you don’t seem very grateful, Steve.” Jim comments. “It was lucky I found your glucagon kit or I would have taken you to hospital -”

“What?” Steve spits, shaking his head to try and process this information past his migraine. 

“My mom says diabetic people can pass out from hypoglycemia if you skip meals - how much did you eat yesterday after your insulin -”

“You think this is because of my diabetes?” Steve glares at Jim, wanting to look anywhere but at the Angel.

“I mean - unless you have another explanation for your sudden passing out -”

“Would you believe me if I said it was his fault?” Steve snaps, pointing a trembling hand at the Angel (who is acting very nervous for a celestial doom-bringer, the dirty bastard). It’s clearly an act so that Jim lets his guard down -

Jim has a blank look on his face.

“Your blood sugar was low, Steve.” Jim says. “And he’s the one who called me to help you.”

Steve does not like people knowing about his diabetes. He usually tries to keep it under wraps as much as he can by carefully balancing his diet and taking insulin after he eats, but a couple of people he spends the most time with know about it since it’s difficult to hide the insulin injections. He didn’t think Jim knew - but a look down at his medical alert band shows it’s inside out to show the details in case his blood sugar gets too high or low for him to be able to fix it himself. Jim clearly knows enough from his mother to look for medical IDs, measure blood sugar and administer glucagon or insulin.

Steve is still insistent that he didn’t pass out because of that, however. He was so, so certain he’d seen the Angel’s face and he’d collapsed from shock -

Wait. He sees what’s going on here. Steve narrows his eyes as he glares at the Angel. The Angel turns his armoured face away from Steve to inspect the door frame.

“I’ll give the others a call to let them know you’re okay.” Jim takes out his phone and weaves past the Angel into the hall.

“No, wait -” Steve yelps, not wanting to be left alone with the Angel, but Jim doesn’t hear.

The door shuts behind him. There’s a clinking noise from armour as the Angel adjusts where he’s leaning on the wall. Steve swallows hard, edging farther away.

“What’s your deal?” Steve hisses, trying to remain aggressive, but his jaw hurts from where he bashed it on the floor, causing his words to slur a bit. “If you’re here to kill me you should wait until Jim’s gone; he’ll wipe the floor with you -”

“I’m not here to hurt you.” The Angel says. His voice echoes inside the helmet, and Steve can’t help flinching at it.

“Yeah, right.” Steve snaps. “What’s the deal with your face? Do you take appearances based on memories? Or - fuck - I don’t fucking know -”

“Worst fears?” The Angel says.

Steve freezes, flicking his eyes up. The Angel’s hands are bunched in fists, but they’re shaking violently. Almost as much as how Steve is trembling like a leaf at the moment.

“Why are you so scared of a scrappy teenage boy?” The Angel quips, yet his voice betrays his anxiety. 

Steve can’t bring himself to form words as the Angel limps over to the desk chair where Jim was previously sitting and gingerly rests his burnt body on it. His wings sweep either side of the chair and partially rest on the floor.

“I’m not scared of him.” Steve growls, but the words crack. The Angel watches him past the helmet.

“Good.” The Angel whispers. “Because I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Steve.”

The words strikes him in the chest like a bullet. Steve finds himself fighting for air as the Angel watches him through that helmet, waiting for a response. That posture - tentative because of his wound, yet there’s no confidence in it. They’re both terrified - yet it’s so ingrained in the Angel’s gait and how he’s trying to stop his hands from shaking and keep eye contact despite the fact he can tell he hates it -

“You have his voice too.” Steve mutters, forcing his words out past his chattering teeth.

The Angel moves his head.

“Whose voice?” His voice quakes. “Pepperjack?”

“Don’t you dare say his name.” Steve snarls, tightening his fingers in his sheets so they scrunch up.

“Elijah Pepperjack.”

His stomach goes cold. The Angel has gone still, like he’s tested the words out. Steve has completely forgotten how to move as he feels the blood drain out of his face.

“How did you know -” He starts whispering.

“Because it’s  _ my  _ name, isn’t it?” 

And the helmet is gone, and Steve is left staring into the face of someone he’d seen every day invading his night terrors, flashing around every corner - the face of someone he’d wanted to forget but always ended up remembering. The eyes are electric - pale yellow, glowing sporadically - but Steve could never forget Eli’s face.

“What was his middle name?” Steve whispers, just so he can get a confirmation before he starts believing any shit that leaves the Angel’s mouth.

Silence for a few seconds.

“Was it Leslie?”

There’s ice in his stomach as Steve shakes his head in disbelief.

“How did you -”

“Because when I got my wings, we had a choice of our names from life.” The Angel says. “I had a choice between Elijah or Leslie.” He tilts his head away, as if he’s embarrassed. “It was barely a choice, if you ask me -”

“You -” Steve says hoarsely, his mouth so dry he can barely speak. “You  _ are  _ Eli?”

Eli’s pale eyes flash. “I  _ was  _ Eli.” He glances to the side with an exhale. “Probably. I can’t remember.”

“You - you can’t remember?” Steve doesn’t even know how to respond so only echoes.

The Angel shifts his position so his wing brushes against the floor. It looks like he wants to shrug, but it would probably be too painful.

“I don’t know why you’re so pant-crappingly scared of me because I  _ don’t know you.”  _ Eli emphasises. “You might have known me, but really, it doesn’t matter - I can’t remember anything about my past life.”

That ice in his stomach hasn’t thawed away. Steve swallows hard, his chest still heaving as he tries to draw in a full breath, but fear still constricts his ribcage.

“You can’t remember anything?” He repeats again, ignoring how his voice is trembling.

“Nothing.”

“Anything at all?”

“What part of  _ nothing  _ don’t you understand?” Eli says, getting exasperated now, drawing his eyebrows together. Just that movement makes Steve recoil, afraid that any second now he’s going to be engulfed in holy fire or something.

Steve shakes his head and screws his eyes up. “It’s just - it’s a lot to take in -”

“And I get that. I’d be freaked too.” Eli says, and then he smiles.

Steve finds himself reeling. Eli is practically glowing. No braces, no glasses - perfect skin, shiny hair. And it just looks effortless. His irises are shocking - every time sees them it sends chills through his body. 

It makes Steve’s mind rush. He thinks about every artistic interpretation of angels he’s seen with their large wings and halos - and wonders for a second whether they’d got it wrong. The halo part, anyway - there isn’t any doubt about the wings. Eli hasn’t got one - but his celestial essence glows from him in his skin and from his eyes. 

“Steve, whatever I did to you when I was alive, I’m sorry.” Eli has a solemn look on his face, and that takes him by surprise.

Not just by surprise - Steve feels even iller than he did before. The urge to physically puke is overwhelming as he sits there paralysed. And Eli remains sincere - he’s completely serious in his apology.

Steve wants to scream. He wants to cry.  _ No, it’s not your fault, it was  _ **_never_ ** _ your fault.  _ **_I_ ** _ should be apologising to _ **_you._ **

But he can’t remember how to talk. That “I’m sorry” that had so easily whisked from his mouth at every second of the day and snatched by the wind yesterday night at the canals is suddenly thick and fat and stuck in his throat. Eli just waits for a response, fingers woven together and pale eyes wide.

Luckily, he’s graced by Jim entering the room again. As quickly as it had disappeared, Eli’s helmet snaps over his face again, obscuring it from view before Jim even looks up from his phone.

“Well, if you two are okay, I’m gonna head off then.” Jim says, tucking his phone into his back pocket.

“Doing well despite the circumstances.” Eli says dryly, and Jim laughs, before giving Steve the side eye.

“Hey, I like this guy!” Jim smiles, giving Eli a high five like he’s just another guy rather than a literal heavenly messenger sat in Steve’s room. “I can’t believe I wanted to slice him up with Daylight.” He adds as a little side whisper to Steve from the corner of his mouth.

“Hm.” Steve forces out through his teeth.

“Get better soon, both of you!” Jim calls as he leaves the house.

They do not move until they hear Jim drive off. Even then, there’s still a few minutes of unbearable silence and awkward energy being exchanged between them. Steve realises he’s no longer unbearably shivering like he’s sat in the snow and he’s actually relaxed.

Eli’s helmet clicks away and again Steve feels that weird chill when he sees that face he’d tried so hard to scrub from his memory right in front of him. 

There’s no point in being afraid. Steve knows that if Eli is telling the truth and he really does have no memories, then he doesn’t remember  _ that.  _ He doesn’t remember any of it. Steve could be absolutely anyone to him.

Steve’s been granted a clean slate. He still has that nervous tickling feeling in the pit of his stomach so clears his throat as if that’ll make it stop, but all it does is draw Eli’s attention to him.

“So if you’re not here to hurt me - then what are you doing here?” Steve asks, his voice small.

Eli blinks. “Well, I was looking for my assignment here. Then I got struck by lightning and-” Eli flourishes pathetically with his hands. “Now I’m here.”

“Assignment?” Steve asks, his forehead creasing in confusion. 

Eli snorts. “Basic things. Sometimes a specific person needs an angel to watch them for a bit.”

“Like a guardian angel?”

“Mm, basically.” Eli says. “If we’re lucky we might get a miracle assignment. Minor things like healing sick people or helping couples have children.”

“Those don’t sound minor.” Steve mutters, before looking up at him and managing to look Eli fully in the eyes for the first time. “If you can heal people, why don’t you heal everyone? There are loads of sick people who need help -”

Eli shakes his head. “Our healing powers only work on the people we’re assigned to.”

Steve scowls. “Are you kidding me? That’s so fucking unfair - that someone decides who gets healed and who doesn’t -”

“Steve, if I could heal your diabetes I would -”

“Huh? No, fuck my diabetes. I’ve had it since I was a kid and it’s part of me. I don’t want it ‘healed.’” Steve snaps, glaring at him. “I’m talking about those terminally ill people and kids who get hit by cars and -”

“I know it seems unfair. But when you’ve done this for a while, you see how it works.” Eli whispers, and there’s suddenly this little sparkle in his eyes as he talks. “When someone is suffering, there’s always an angel looking out for them. No matter what. Just that presence is enough for some people. If the presence isn’t enough, then some get healed, and some don’t.”

“What about those perfectly good people who die because of their suffering? Who didn’t deserve it?” Steve demands, and Eli looks up.

He holds his hands to the side and indicates to himself. “Exhibit A.”

And seeing this kid sat in his desk chair, spilling light and shining from his armour and white feathers - a bittersweet joy in his expression as he thinks about those people - it fucking hurts Steve. It stabs and rips and tears. 

Because that means Eli suffered.

But Steve knows that already. He always knew that. And he’s been trying to come to terms with it for two years. And now it’s staring him quite literally in the face and he wants to sob or pass out or vomit or all of the above.

Eli winces, readjusting his position again, and only now does Steve notice throughout this entire conversation how uncomfortable Eli is. It’s not surprising, really, considering that burn is still raw and painful and his wing bones are still splinted up. Steve silently curses to himself, knowing he’s being selfish and an asshole. As per usual.

He shuffles to the side and gruffly pats the bed next to him, indicating to Eli to sit there. Eli hesitates, looking at him, like he’s asking for permission even though Steve’s already given it to him. Steve pats the bed again wordlessly, and Eli stiffly gets up - but instead of sitting, he completely flops stomach first. The mattress jolts from the force and Steve is almost knocked off.

“Are you okay, buttsnack?” Steve asks, but Eli only makes a happiness noise as he wriggles a little to get comfortable.

“Soft.” Eli’s voice is muffled from where his face is buried in the blankets.

Steve can’t help cracking a smile, before looking down to see the enormous wing draped across his lap and down onto the floor. The other wing is completely splinted so it can’t unfold (Blinky’s handiwork - yeah, groan - pun not intended), but he’s finally got a good look at the appendages and Steve can’t help the curiosity engulfing him.

It’s so warm - it literally is a blanket over his lap and legs. Eli makes another noise of content and Steve hovers a hand over the wing. Should he? Shouldn’t he? He should probably ask first -

“Touch at your peril.” Eli mutters without even looking at him, and Steve immediately puts his hand back behind his back.

That’s the first death threat he’s gotten from an angel and Steve wants it to be his last at risk of being sent to hell in a ball of fire - but Eli immediately snorts and then lets out a high pitched giggle, his shoulders shaking from it. Steve looks over his shoulder in alarm to see Eli looking at him, his face mushed into Steve’s pillow with a mischievous expression on his face.

“You should have seen your face.” Eli laughs, with that same glitter in his eyes as before, and Steve feels his heart skid, but in a different way this time. “I’m just kidding. You can touch, if you want - but they’re so dirty I don’t think you’d want to -”

Steve blinks dumbly, feeling his jaw drop slightly, and he knows how stupid he looks but his brain isn’t operating enough to hide it.

“Are you sure?”

“I said you could.” Eli mumbles into the mattress again.

Well, if he’s got an invitation, he may as well take it. When is he ever going to touch an angel’s wing again? Steve, now looking for anything as a distraction from his mind getting loud, hovers his hand over the feathers again before finally placing it down. He can’t help a gasp escaping at how warm it is, and how the feathers react to his hand being there. 

“Wow.” Steve breathes, brushing the feather fibres under his fingertips. They’re so soft it’s like a breath of air on his skin.

Eli makes a noise in his throat and Steve stops touching immediately when he sees Eli arching his neck slightly. Eli looks back at him with an indignant look.

“Is that it?”

“Well, you made a noise so I thought you didn’t like it -”

Eli sets his eyebrows. “N-no - it’s just - I haven’t been able to reach them to clean them so -” Steve doesn’t miss how his voice cracks again. “It’s nice.”

“Oh.”

Yeah, he really doesn’t have any other words except for that.

How is he supposed to describe a situation where the boy he’d bullied pretty much all his life was lying docile in his room and letting Steve stroke his wings? It feels weirdly normal and not strange at all even though it should be - but there’s still this intrusive sickening feeling that resides in Steve’s heart and stomach. He feels like he’s lying to Eli by not telling him. Like he’s taking advantage of his loss of memories.

“Wait. Down. Down.” Eli mutters, and Steve obeys, still resting his fingertips on the feathers. “Down a bit more. Left. Left again - aha!”

Steve freezes his hand when Eli says that. There’s a feather that’s bent there.

“That feather. Pull it out.” Eli says, and Steve twists his face up.

“What? I can’t do that -”

“Yes, you can.” Eli insists. “Just grab it by the base and like -” He makes a gesture with his hand. “Twist and yank it out.”

“Won’t that hurt?” Steve protests, using his fingers to move the other feathers out of the way to find the offending one.

“Not as much as my back does.” Eli responds. “Twist and pull.”

Steve fights back a grimace as he braces the wing on the fragile bones gently yet firmly with one hand, and then pinches the shaft of the bent feather with his thumb and forefinger. That hesitation hits him, but Eli sternly tells him to stop being a wuss. Steve screws his eyes shut, and jerks his arm in a sharp motion, like ripping off a bandage. The feather comes loose and Eli yelps loudly.

Steve opens his eyes and sees the feather in his hand. The sharp end of the shaft is coated in blood and he instantly lets go of Eli’s wing after hearing his noise of pain.

“Are you okay?” He immediately asks.

“You ask that a lot.” Eli says, and the wing shifts on Steve’s lap as he stretches it. “Holy crap, that thing was annoying me for  _ so  _ long!”

Steve watches the muscles and bones in Eli’s wing move in unison whilst he flexes it. It’s incredible seeing something like that so closely. The longest primary feathers are probably bigger than Steve’s entire arm. Eli makes a purring noise of satisfaction at the feeling of the bent feather that must have been irritating him for that amount of time being gone.

And Eli is right. Steve has been asking if he’s okay a lot. He hadn’t even noticed it until Eli had pointed it out.

But seeing Eli so happy about having his wings cleaned makes Steve want to see that blissful look on him more. And he likes the softness of the feathers on his skin. So it’s really a win win for them both.

It is a lot of wing to get through. Steve remains careful and gentle as he brushes through feathers, smoothing fibres down and laying them down in their precise order. Eli’s other wing is in way worse shape and he knows he won’t be able to touch it until the bones are healed. The grime from the feathers comes off when Steve simply passes his fingers through them, and Eli is entering a practical coma from the treatment. Steve can’t help smiling softly at seeing him so relaxed.

“Thanks, Steve.” Eli mumbles into the covers with another sigh as Steve continues smoothing the feathers at a regular rhythm.

“No problem.” Steve grunts, not taking his eyes off his work as he lifts the wing slightly and replaces it so that he can reach some of the other feathers - and even that gets him having to strain to lift it due to how huge it is. The single wing is longer than Steve is tall - he wouldn’t be surprised if it was over seven feet - “How can you even fly with these things?”

Eli makes a weird movement with his shoulders that Steve can only assume is a modified shrug due to his back. “They’re pretty light to me.”

“You must be pretty strong, then.” Steve says, and it’s an offhanded sort-of joke to try and distract himself.

Eli stretches the wing so it clicks, before placing it back in Steve’s lap - the weight of which almost knocks him off the bed. “I guess. I managed to carry you in here after you collapsed -”

“You did what?” Steve gawks, turning his head to look at the scrawny boy and trying to imagine him carrying his own bulk without snapping like a twig. Eli shrugs again. “I thought Jim - ugh - never mind that - why did you do that? You’re hurt -”

“I wasn’t gonna just leave you on the floor!” Eli retorts, glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

“You should have -”

“That goes against everything I stand for.” Eli scowls. “Injured or not, I swore under oath to be kind and compassionate towards everyone and everything -”

“Well, you weren’t with my mom’s roof!” Steve shoots back - only for him to immediately stop at the look on Eli’s face. Eli holds his glare for only about a half second before his eye twitches and he starts laughing, putting a hand over his mouth to try and muffle his giggles. Steve tries to remain angry but how can he when daylight practically spills from Eli? It’s so catching, and he can’t help breaking into a smile and letting his own laughs break free.

“My mom is gonna kill me.” He snorts, and Eli presses his face into the bed as if he’s trying to hide his embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is barely audible from the muffling, and Steve smiles again, putting his free hand on Eli’s. Eli freezes, before he relaxes his hand into Steve’s palm, the fingers entwining slightly.

“It’s okay, Pepperbuddy. My step-dad and I can fix it.” Steve responds, brushing a thumb over the back of Eli’s hand. His skin is almost as warm as his wings.

Eli turns his head so one pale eye breaks free of the blankets.

“Is that what you used to call me? Pepperbuddy?” Eli asks, and the delight in his gaze makes Steve’s heart squeeze. He takes his hand from Eli’s and goes back to the wing.

“Yeah.” Steve says, focusing on the wing intently so he breaks the eye contact, because he can’t bear looking at his innocent, joyful face when he knows the truth.

_ Cheese slice. Brace face. Four eyes. Buttsnack. Metal mouth.  _

“We must have been good friends.” Eli says, and he looks so happy saying that.

His throat tightens and his stomach clenches.

“I guess you’re right.”

Why are lies so much easier than the truth?

Steve is practically fighting back rising bile and tears as he continues to sort through Eli’s feathers. Eli doesn’t notice it, still with that unbearably sweet smile and hazy eyes. 

“I was lucky to have a friend like you.” Eli says, and his voice is so quiet it sounds like he’s dropping off. 

Steve only nods, biting on his lip as he just lets him say that. It’s not lying, right? He’s just not correcting him -

“Do you think we can still be friends?” Eli whispers, a hopeful glimmer on his face.

Steve nods. “I think we can still be friends, Pepperbuddy.”

“Really?” Eli whispers, his eyes still sparkling, and Steve smiles too.

“Yeah.” His voice catches. “Really.”

There is silence so all Steve can do is try and focus on the feathers past the blurry film covering his eyes. Eli’s breathing is hushed, slow. The noise is something so quiet, so insignificant, but it’s all Steve can do to drag it in like cold air after leaving a smoky room. The air is thick, almost frozen, pleading with Steve to just spit out the truth before it crushes his ribs into powder.

“Pep - Eli.” Steve says. “I gotta - I gotta tell you something -”

He glances to the side when he gets no response and sees Eli’s eyes are closed. He’s sleeping.

Eli is here. He’s warm. He’s breathing. He’s bleeding. Steve looks at the bent feather on the floor, still with the drop of blood on the end, and his hand on the wing slows to a stop. Eli’s chest is gently rising and falling so it is the only thing moving in the room. Right there, asleep and peaceful - so gentle and calm with his wings draping across rumpled sheets. He looks like he could be right out of a Renaissance painting.

But Steve knows this isn’t the same. He might look the same - well, sort of - the bones and muscle and flow of blood under the skin might look and feel human, but Eli is not human. Not anymore. And Steve knows exactly who is to blame for that. 

And he fucking hates himself for it. This hatred has enveloped him until the point he imagines himself in a tight box in the dark and he can’t fully uncoil his limbs and his neck and skull are pressed against freezing metal. Until he claws at his face to feel  _ something  _ other than the numbness and the tightness on his body and in his throat.

What is a King who closes the door to his throne room so he’s alone in the dark? Where he sits and rocks and sniffs and wails and sobs and screams? Where he lets the panic take him, the anxiety and guilt sitting like a fat pebble in his stomach finally exploding? Where the crown he polishes in the daylight falls from his head and shatters upon the floor of the box he’d put himself in?

Already he can feel it pricking at his eyelids. Steve has to bite back a whimper, putting his fist flat against his mouth and pushing so he can feel his teeth on his knuckles - but before he can fully lapse into it, the feathers across his lap shift, and Eli exhales with a soft noise - and then it’s broken.

He moves his hand away from his face, and looks down at Eli. He’s got a loose strand of hair draping down into his eyes.

Steve reaches out to brush it away, but that ice freezes him before he can. He misses being numb. Without being able to feel his thoughts - there, yet muffled under static - like fingertips suffering from pins and needles. It’s like the presence of Eli in his room, the source of it all, has busted a hole in his carefully built up barriers and it’s all flooding out like water under high pressure and flooding.

Eli shifts in his sleep again and his little finger brushes past Steve’s hand. He remembers how that cold pebble had become a soft tickle in his stomach when Eli’s fingers had entwined with his.

He goes from cold to immediately too warm. It’s from the wing over his knees, he tells himself firmly. Nothing else.

“I need a fucking drink.” He mutters to himself. To feel numb again. To get rid of the stone and the tickle. He’d rather feel nothing at all than feel confused over what the former could mean.

So Steve pushes the wing off without waking Eli up and goes to measure his blood sugar before he can steal some of his mom’s vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about how to develop Steve's character more outside of Trollhunting and the events in this fic to give him more depth. My friend, who happens to also have type one diabetes, suggested this! And I thought it was a brilliant idea considering how there is so little representation within mainstream media. So, here's a few notes about Steve's diabetes and how it affects his life.
> 
> \- He was diagnosed with type one diabetes at 11 following weight loss, dehydration and chronic fatigue.  
> \- He manages the unpredictable fluctuations of his blood sugar by taking insulin before he eats and balancing his diet very carefully.  
> \- When training for football and doing exercise, he has to up his blood sugar by eating high glucose foods at regular intervals.  
> \- He wears a medical alert band on his left wrist. It's silicone with a metal plate. His medical details are on the inside and can be flipped around in case he passes out from his blood sugar being too low or too high.
> 
> Aside from that, his life is pretty much the same.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed (even if this chap was a little shorter). Please be sure to leave a comment to ask me any questions, queries, etc - or just a kudos if you're in a hurry! They all motivate me so much!
> 
> Thanks for reading1


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eli finds out something surprising regarding the Trollhunter Amulet. Steve is hungover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone! So happy to see so many people here with me :D
> 
> thanks sm for all the support here. I genuinely appreciate you so much. It might be a small-ish fandom but i love it here and will continue to write whilst we wait for the movie >:D
> 
> Enjoy!

Elijah feels great. He hasn’t had a good sleep since he became an angel. Even though angels didn’t even need to sleep, he realises how much he missed it. Just a chance to properly switch off for a while. He blinks sleepily and readjusts where he’s curled up in blankets before relaxing with a sigh again, tucking himself under his free wing.

It doesn’t take him long to notice how clean and comfortable his feathers are. Elijah edges up, being careful of his back as he gets a better look. They’re pearly white, a stark contrast to the broken feathers and black of soot and dust all over them. 

“Steve.” He says, recalling the night before, and instantly feels his face getting hot.

_ You  _ **_are_ ** _ Eli?  _ Steve’s question from yesterday remains fresh in his mind. He’s never had a nickname like that before. It’s always been just Elijah, plain old Elijah, for as long as he can - well - remember.

“Eli.” He says, like he’s testing the word out, and finds he likes it, so he says it again. “Eli.”

And ‘Pepperbuddy’. Eli still can’t contain his delight at that discovery. And the affection in Steve’s voice when he’d said it. His stomach and heart had done all sorts of weird flips when he’d heard it.

He’d had a friend. Steve had been his _ friend. _

Eli wouldn’t have admitted it, but it was sort of difficult to have friends as an angel. Angels tended to stick with angels they’d known in life as people, which was fair enough. Angels were allowed memories and relationships with people they’d known in their previous lives if they were both angels, and that was the only exception. No interaction with humanity outside of assignments.

EIi knows he’s felt jealous of that. Two angels now reunited forever. Going out for your assignment and returning to friends and family coming back from their own assignments.

Even then, there wasn’t much time for recreation for angels. You’d receive an assignment, and once completed, you’d fly back for another one. Gabriel was very strict on that.

And that was just how it was, and it’s all Eli’s known for a long, long time now. Assignment, assignment, assignment. And he does like assignments - they’re everything to him - because he knows that once upon a time, he was just an assignment too. He knows every assignment is immensely important.

Yet Steve still wants to be his friend. Even though Eli knows he’s hurt Steve somewhere along the line, although he can’t remember for the life of him what it is. Steve is willing to put it to the side because he values their friendship above all - even if Eli has died and come back as a heavenly being. Eli can’t help smiling like an idiot because of that.

Only then, Eli realises that Steve isn’t in the room with him.

He frowns, trying to sit up a little more. Damn it. Maybe his wings had taken up too much room and he couldn’t sleep there? Steve seemed like he had more than enough space up here when he was cleaning them. Just recalling that is enough to bring colour to his cheeks and he has to shake his head to clear the thought.

Maybe when Eli had fallen asleep, Steve finally left because he was freaked? And couldn’t deal with being in the same room with Eli after whatever he’d done to Steve when he was alive?

Eli feels sick all of a sudden, guilt rising up in his throat. He wishes he could be able to remember so he could at least attempt to make it right.

Steve’s only been back in Eli’s life for a few days and already the thought of losing him is making Eli incredibly distressed. He can’t even imagine what he could have done to make Steve so deathly afraid of him - and it must have been really,  _ really  _ bad if it warranted such a bad panic attack that the poor guy had literally collapsed from fear.

Eli knows he’s got to find out and at least attempt to resolve it whilst he’s grounded here. Maybe  _ Steve  _ is his assignment? It’s certainly worth thinking about. 

For now, he needs to figure out what horrible things he’s done in life and attempt to turn over a new leaf with Steve. It wouldn’t only make Eli feel better, but Steve as well. Knowing that whatever has turned foul between them is fixed and Steve can get on with his life without fear, and Eli can keep doing his assignments.

He wriggles upright with a tiny groan of pain before getting up onto wobbly feet and looking around. All the blood rushes to Eli’s head, making his vision blur, so he sits down for a second to catch his breath and let his light-headedness fade before he gets up.

Steve’s room is a mess. Even more so with medical supplies strewn across the floor and trash spilling from the can under his desk. That guilt is there again. Eli is imposing, making life so much more difficult when it was clearly simpler without a fucking angel crashing through the roof. He still feels terrible about that, but he’s somewhat paid for it with a broken wing. He winces thinking about his body hitting the roof wing first and snapping the bones in it like a dry twig.

The splint on his broken wing is very firm and secure, and Eli thinks that with no complications and his increased healing, it should be better in a month - at least. The burn might take a little longer to fade, but it shouldn’t affect his flying as much.

Eli peeks his head out of the room and looks around, like a shy child looking from behind its mother. He’s really got nothing to worry about for now. Steve’s parents won’t be home until tomorrow. The hallway feels weird and foreign, and the air feels thick - like he’s intruding and the very atmosphere is rejecting him. There is no sign of Steve.

Walking has almost become easier overnight. Amazing what a good night’s sleep can do, he thinks dryly, remembering the human saying. It’s still uncomfortable and painful, but it’s bearable compared to his completely fresh burn wounds from a few days ago. Eli’s longest feathers make soft swishing noises as they drag across the floor.

He peeks down the stairs. He can’t see anything well enough, but now Eli can hear the sound of drawn out breathing. Steve must be down there.

Ignoring the little voice in his head telling him that Steve has run away from him, Eli takes the stairs one at a time, nervous at aggravating his wounds. At one point he has to sit down halfway down the staircase to catch his breath, and there he can see Steve sprawled across one of the couches, still in his clothes from the day before.

At one point as Eli is nervously making his way over, he accidentally steps on something with a yelp. A beer can clatters to the side as Eli hops back, and he instantly looks up, expecting Steve to wake.

Steve only groans loudly and rolls over, and only then does Eli see the bottle of vodka wrapped in his arms (and the other beer cans on the floor).

“Steve.” Eli scowls, giving him a prod in the ribs. 

Steve only mutters again and covers his face with his free arm. Eli sets his eyebrows and grabs the bottle by the neck and yanks it free from Steve’s grip. That wakes him up, causing him to complain incoherently about the sunlight and bury his face into the couch.

“Are you kidding me?” Eli yells, slamming the bottle down on the table with a loud crack so Steve whimpers and covers his ears with a couch cushion. “Are you drunk?!”

“Not anymore.” Steve mumbles.

“How are you not hypoglycemic?” Eli snaps, and Steve does a weird half shrug thing that only makes Eli more furious.

“Probably the glucagon from before.” Steve grumbles, not moving his face from the couch.

“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. You shouldn’t be drinking at all.” Eli growls, and Steve whimpers, pushing the couch cushion further over his ears.

“Can you please be quieter?” Steve wails, and Eli shakes his head.

“No. You need to eat something.” Eli says, snatching up the bottle of vodka and going to pour it down the kitchen sink. The liquid sloshes down the drain, to Steve’s dismay as he lifts the cushion to look.

Steve whimpers. “My mom is gonna kill me.”

“You shouldn’t have been drinking her alcohol.” Eli says with no sympathy, dropping the bottle into the trash and rummaging around for something with high glucose content.

Steve only whines and complains at every noise Eli makes such as the cupboard doors shutting or the rustling of packaging. Eli can’t help being pissed as he looks for food, grinding his teeth together. Why would Steve put himself in danger like that? Alcohol would have lowered his blood sugar, especially vodka (and the beers as well). Excluding the glucagon shot that Jim had administered before, Eli hasn’t actually seen Steve eat a single thing.

“Aha!” Eli says, causing Steve to cover his ears with a groan - the hungover idiot - and brandishes the Nougat Nummy like a sword. “Success!”

“Shut up.” Steve grumbles.

“That’s no way to talk to an angel.” Eli says, limping over to Steve and opening the wrapper to reveal the chocolate bar, before holding it in Steve’s face. “Eat.”

Steve blanches, turning his nose away. “No.”

Eli glares. “Eat it.”

“Don’ wan it.”

“Eat it.”

“I feel sick.”

“And whose fault is that?” Eli growls, poking Steve in the cheek. “Just eat it. You’ll feel better -”

“No.” Steve whines, and Eli begins to lose his patience.

“Steve, I didn’t haul my butt down the stairs to have you whine and complain at me.” Eli shoots back. “If you don’t eat the Nougat Nummy I am upping and leaving this instant.”

“What?” Steve snaps, suddenly lifting his head for the first time. “You can’t do that!”

“I can do whatever the hell I want.” Eli glowers at him. “Eat it.”

“I don’t wanna eat it!” Steve wails, trying to push Eli away, but he fights back, pinning Steve by the shoulders.

“For fuck’s sake, just eat the goddamn Nougat Nummy -” Eli begins howling, only to be interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

Steve screams in shock as he recoils away from the door. Eli’s helmet reacts by snapping over his face, but even he knows that when he turns around to see who’s just walked into the house it won’t do anything to hide his wings.

It turns out to just be Jim, who seems beyond confused at walking in to see an Angel pinning Steve to the couch and squishing a Nougat Nummy into his face. The three are frozen, just staring at each other with jaws dropped in shock.

“I’ll come back later.” Jim manages to force out before he instantly shuts the door again.

“Buttsnack! Get back here!” Steve yells, pushing Eli off him so he shrieks and running after Jim. Unfortunately for him, his hangover mixed with lowering blood sugar causes him to face plant the floor, and Eli immediately takes the opportunity to grab Steve in a headlock and jam the chocolate into his mouth.

Steve tries to spit it out and tries to wriggle free, but Eli doesn’t relent, tightening the headlock. It doesn’t take long for Jim to come back - and Steve realises he’d much rather eat the Nougat Nummy without complaint than continue to refuse and make himself look like a fucking baby being force fed. Eli finally releases Steve and turns his attention to Jim. Steve shuffles into the corner with murder on his face whilst he eats reluctantly.

“I just came to check if you two were okay.” Jim explains to Eli. Steve grumbles about how he hates that Jim has broken into the house multiple times now, but they ignore him.

“I’m fine.” Eli says, suddenly feeling a little self conscious as Jim analyses him with his bright blue eyes. He’s grateful for the helmet covering his face.

“And Steve?” Jim asks.

Eli shrugs. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Steve swears at him under his breath. Eli tells him to shut up and eat his Nougat Nummy.

Jim’s eyebrows shoot up when Steve begrudgingly obeys. “Wow, seems you really do have everything under control - um - I never caught your name?”

“Gabriel.” 

Shitting fuck. Eli internally heaves a groan. Of all names he could have splurged out, it had to be Gabriel’s. Does he have time to take that back? Probably not - but anything is better than Jim knowing his actual name just in case he knew Eli in life -

“You’re Gabriel?” Jim asks in surprise, and Eli’s anxiety immediately gives way to indignance and letting his wings bristle in annoyance as Jim flicks his eyes up and down. Why do people keep assuming he’s too small for a job like Gabriel’s?

“Huh? But -” Steve starts saying but immediately holds his tongue when Eli shoots him the steeliest glare he can muster. Jim doesn’t seem to notice Steve’s outburst.

“The one and only.” Eli says through his teeth.

“Well - nice to finally meet you properly.” Jim says, holding a hand out. Eli tentatively shakes it. Jim’s fingertips are cold. “I’m Jim Lake Junior.”

“Hi.” Eli says. He can feel a tiny click in his mind and curses, knowing his memory is unravelling. This is terrible - it’s only reminded him of how badly he needs to find his assignment and leave -

Hold the phone. Eli glances down, seeing a blue pulse of light leaking through the zipper of Jim’s satchel that caught his eye. Well that’s incredibly odd, he thinks, noticing how his heart reacts to it. Jim notices he’s looking and puts his hand over the glow a little too late.

“Is that a Troll artefact?” Eli asks, and Jim’s face becomes a mixture of shock and horror.

“Troll? Wh-what’s that?” Jim laughs nervously, sweat beading on his forehead.

Steve scoffs. “You’re not fooling him, buttsnack.”

“Eat your Nougat Nummy.” Eli snaps at him, and Steve starts protesting that he’s finished it - but Eli’s prepared for that one and immediately throws another at him. It hits the wall above Steve’s head so he screams, before it lands in his lap.

A Troll artefact in the hands of a human? This investigation is proving to be more than Eli had first realised. This isn’t just one human mixing with Trolls - if there’s another one with literal Troll relics in his possession, this could be serious.

“Can I see it?” Eli asks, and Jim’s hand tightens around the strap of his satchel. “Please, I’m not going to do anything with it.”

Jim still looks reluctant. Steve rolls his eyes as he aggressively nibbles on the corner of the chocolate bar, eating around the nougat.

“Jim - as an angel it is my duty to have both the interests of humanity and Trollkind in mind.” Eli tries to convince Jim to just give him a look. “Everything I do is to protect them. Please let me see.”

“Just give it to him.” Steve mutters, and Jim hesitates again as Eli holds a hand out. Jim looks between Eli’s hand then to his back and relaxes his shoulders with a sigh as he finally makes a decision.

“Okay - but I need it back.” Jim says, and Eli nods.

“You have my word.” Eli promises, and it’s the truth. He’ll just have to keep tabs on Jim and take it off him at a later date if he thinks the situation requires him to go to those lengths.

Jim buries his hand in his satchel and when it withdraws, a gasp is torn from Eli’s lips as blue light explodes from it. Resting in Jim’s hand is a circle of azure and silver - delicate clockwork wreathed across it, and a fanged Troll skull forged in the metal. There are words engraved around its circumference in both Trollish and English.

“Wow.” Eli says, and he means it - he can barely take his eyes from it. Jim hesitates again as Eli holds his hand out, before finally realising that if Eli wanted to take it from him, he probably would have done so already, and finally places it atop Eli’s palm.

Eli curls his fingers around the edges and feels along the delicate engravings and forged details. The stone is brilliant blue and it penetrates through his visor, causing him to squint. Eli lets go of the amulet for a second and instead of falling, it floats very happily above Eli’s palm. He gives it a nudge so it spins gently, before it immediately flies back to Jim’s hand.

Eli notes this mentally. “So it’s bonded to you?”

Jim nods. “Yes. I found it in the canals.”

“I see.” Eli says, knowing this is how most artefacts behave. Usually the forger is the one magical artefacts bond to, unless they are made with a particular being in mind. Eli’s armour would be an example - it’s bonded to him and therefore responds to his emotions.

But he’s never seen an amulet like that before. It’s weird, Eli thinks as he watches Jim brush a sleeve over the corner of the amulet as if to clean it. The amulet has a strange aura to it - and Eli can’t decipher it fully.

“It’s bonded to you… but - ” Eli repeats. “I wonder -”

Jim is holding the amulet so it is resting in his palm. Eli raises a hand and calls to it. It’s reluctant, and shudders a bit. Jim’s eyes widen and his jaw drops. Eli is more persistent and calls the amulet again, and finally it zips to Eli’s palm.

Steve and Jim’s mouths are so wide open they look like fish. Eli makes a noise of satisfaction that his hunch was right as he lets the amulet float around his own hand.

“H -” Jim trips on his own words as he struggles to close his mouth. “How did you do that?”

Eli lets the amulet rest on his palm and presses a fingertip to the stone. As expected, the blue of the stone gives way to bright golden yellow bleeding across. The amulet responds to Eli’s skin by glowing until the entire stone has gone golden and the entire thing is shining.

“I didn’t know it could do that.” Jim whispers, and Eli removes his hand from the amulet and passes it back to him.

“That’s not just Trollish.” Eli explains, his own voice dropping to a breath as the golden slowly fades back to blue. “It’s Angelic too.”

“Angelic?” Jim echoes, and Steve doesn’t respond, still watching in shock as the chocolate melts over his hands.

“An Angel forged part of that.” Eli explains, pointing to the last of the gold fading away. “That golden reaction is like a signature, in a way. Only other Angels can activate it.”

Jim shakes his head rapidly, like he’s trying to clear it. “But that’s impossible! Merlin made the amulet!”

Eli can’t help his eyebrows shooting up at the mention of the name. Merlin was quite well known amongst the angels as a bit of a - well, there wasn’t exactly a polite way to put it - a loose cannon. Merlin had seemingly been quiet for a while and the angels can’t find a record of him dying, so it was really a mystery as to where he was.

“Merlin wasn’t an Angel. I’d know if he was.” Eli frowns. “What does the amulet do? Maybe it might explain -”

“For the glory of Merlin, Daylight is mine to command!” Jim recites before Eli can even finish his sentence, and the amulet immediately responds, planting itself upon his chest just over his heart and engulfing him in blue light. Even past his visor, Eli has to throw his arms over his eyes it’s so bright.

When the light fades, Jim is clad up in shiny armour glowing with its blue sheen, and Eli feels his jaw dropped. Seeing the armour and the weapon held in his hands is enough to quell any doubts. The armour has similarities between his own and there’s no doubt of the Angelic influence on the sword’s design. He’s recognised similar blades back at home that angels are typically equipped with when going on more dangerous missions - Eli even has one of his own - although it looks like a toothpick in comparison to the one in front of him.

“The Sword of Daylight.” Jim says, posing with a grin, and Eli can’t help a tiny squeak of delight and awe escape him.

“Show off.” Steve grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“Amazing.” Eli gushes, pressing his face right up to the blade to get a closer look at all the engravings. “I’ve never seen a hybrid weapon like this -”

“Hybrid?” Jim and Steve echo at the same time.

Eli calls his own dagger to his hand and it obeys him. Steve’s eyes go so wide they might fall from his head as the dagger materialises. The golden blade shimmers, its edge deathly sharp, and Eli holds it alongside Daylight. There’s no denying the similarities in the forging methods. The purely Angelic dagger has more intricate engravings and a sleeker design - but aside from the difference in metals and size - 

“They’re the same.” Jim whispers.

“Not entirely.” Eli corrects, turning his attention back to Daylight. “That’s a very special weapon you have there. The hands of a wizard, a Troll,  _ and  _ an angel made that.” He flexes his hand so his dagger disappears and he can press his palm to Daylight and feel the immense power under the metal. “There’s nothing in any world like it.”

Jim’s eyes glint as he gives Eli the side look, putting Daylight over his shoulder. “Wanna see what I can do with it?”

Eli lets out a tiny squeak.

“I thought you’d never ask!”

-

Steve is pissed off. And still hungover.

He presses a bag of frozen peas to his forehead as he watches Jim and Eli fanboy over the amulet and the sword, and he can’t help let that slither of jealousy worm its way back. Stupid Jim, stupid sword, stupid  _ everything.  _ That starstruck look all over Eli despite the fact he still hides his face is just making Steve wish that the attention is on him instead.

It’s not the first time he’s felt like that.

When he’d been so desperate for Eli’s attention that he didn’t even  _ care  _ that it was fear instead of wonder in those eyes.

That’s something he really,  _ really  _ doesn’t want Eli to remember. Even more so than the bullying. The churn in his stomach threatens to bring up all the force-fed Nougat Nummy from earlier so he has to continue to swallow hard whilst covering his face with the hands holding up the frozen peas.

He continues to watch Eli and Jim with a sour taste in his mouth, and it’s not just from the festering alcohol.

The fact that Eli had a dagger this entire time hasn’t left his conscience either. It just seems like an oxymoron to him, that the purest, sweetest kid ever would carry around a celestial blade - 

But he’s not a kid anymore. He’s a messenger, a protector, a warrior. Steve hates that he has to keep reminding himself of that. His heart is clearly taking a lot longer to catch up than the rest of him is.

Every time Eli speaks, Steve’s terrified Jim is going to recognise his voice. Eli obviously lied about his name to Jim for a reason - and Steve is desperate for Jim to put his sword away and fuck off not just for his own (selfish) sake but for Eli’s anonymity as well - but the two are just so obsessed with talking about Trolls and Angels and battle techniques and hypothesising about Daylight’s origin. They’d lost Steve around the discussion about the clockwork in the amulet. The fast paced gushing is almost impossible to keep up with.

At some point Jim even calls Eli ‘Gabe’, which makes Steve throw up a little in his mouth. He hopes Eli hated it as much as he did, but Eli doesn’t even seem to notice as he goes right back to his excited chatter. Jim has such a wide, genuine smile on his face that Steve wants to punch him.

The intruders in his house don’t seem to stop. Claire and the other Trollhunters eventually track Jim down, hopping through a portal with her staff. Jim immediately introduces ‘Gabe’ to the other Trollhunters and Eli’s chatter doesn’t cease once, enthusiastically shaking all of their hands in turn (including all four of Blinky’s).

And once again, Steve is forgotten. Sat wrapped in a blanket leant against the wall with defrosting peas pressed on his forehead.

He stays silent, watching the introductions go ahead. Eli fits right in, he thinks bitterly, with his armour and dagger and majestic wings. He wouldn’t be surprised if Eli was asked to join right away.

“You’re the Troll who splinted my wing?” Eli gasps, still shaking Blinky’s fourth hand.

“Of course.” Blinky says proudly, but has to rip his hand free from Eli’s iron grip with a grimace. “It was quite a challenge, but I am thrilled you approve.”

Not once does that smile drop from Jim’s face. Steve only scowls, his eyebrows drawn together and his jaw set so his teeth are clenched. Claire stands next to Steve, delight making her voice squeaky.

“I haven’t seen Jim smile like that for ages.” Claire says breathlessly, until that sombre cloud that hangs over them all causes a shadow to cast across her face. “Not since -”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve shoots with a glare, cutting her off before she can say it.

Claire immediately forgets him again and goes back to the group as Eli continues to batter them with non-stop questions about Trollhunting and Trollmarket and Claire’s shadow staff and God knows what else. But Eli is so magnetic that they can’t resist answering him and laughing at his enthusiasm.

It’s physically painful. A world away from how relaxed he’d felt yesterday night grooming Eli’s wings. When he could just reach out and touch him and Eli would smile and let him. Right now he feels like there’s a barrier closing him off and he’s banging on the surface and yelling at them to let him in but they can’t hear him. Or they’re ignoring him. The Trollhunters make a ring around Eli as Steve feels himself drain away like a spider down a drain.

It seems that Steve’s worries that Eli’s identity is going to be discovered is all for nothing, since the Trollhunters are either too starstruck or stupid to realise. And actually, Steve realises, Eli’s voice is a little different. Maybe death and ascension to an angel was all he needed for his voice to break, Steve thinks bitterly.

_ Why don’t you tell me to stop like a man instead of a mouse, cheese slice? _

“Stop it.” He mumbles to himself, pushing his hands further into his forehead so the frozen peas physically hurt even past his numb skin. His eyes fuzz and his vision blurs.

“Are you okay, Steve?”

Eli’s voice is so sweet and slightly breathless and Steve’s heart is practically knocked askew from it. He looks up in shock, almost like he’s imagined it, and Eli is looking at him. Steve can almost see that smile on his face past the helmet and even though it should make him happy, it only makes him feel more like he’s going to vomit.

“Yep.” He says.

Eli tilts his head, and Steve knows that he hasn’t managed to convince him.

“Um - well, this has been great -” Eli starts saying, but Jim holds his hands up as if he’s saying it’s okay.

Steve is honestly surprised by Eli’s polite request for them to leave. He thought they were going to be here being nerds literally all day -

“A-okay, Gabe.” Toby grins. “Angel stuff to attend to, right?”

“I g-guess.”

It’s the first time Eli has faltered today. Steve tears his gaze away and fixates somewhere on the floor next to the couch. A drop of water from the bag of peas runs down his nose and drops onto his lap. His hangover migraine thuds with his heartbeat.

“Don’t let me keep you from your Trollhunting.” Eli turns his attention to Jim, and suddenly Jim’s smile is gone. That same shadow casts across him and his face looks gaunt.

“Oh. You won’t. Don’t worry.” Jim says, casting his gaze down. “We’re not Trollhunting today.”

Steve’s threatens to lurch out of his mouth as his skin goes ice cold and his fingertips go numb. He feels like he’s got a mouthful of broken glass sitting on his tongue. He knows exactly why the Trollhunters are taking today off. That same grief suddenly flits across Toby and Claire’s expressions and the Trolls bow their heads with soft exhales.

No, no,  _ no.  _ This  _ cannot  _ be happening. Not in front of Eli.

“Steve, are you coming to -” Jim starts asking, his voice tired, but Steve is so desperate to cut the sentence off he practically yells.

“Yes!” He says a bit too fast. Eli looks at him, his head cocking in confusion. Steve internally curses before lowering his voice back to a more acceptable level. “Yes, I am.”

Jim’s eyes are dull. All that spark Eli had brought back has been extinguished. “We’ll see you there then.”

The Trollhunters leave after that. The cloud has billowed into the room now and nobody wants to stay there any longer. All the delight previously lighting up all four walls is flickering and fading under the shadow the cloud casts. Steve is used to the cloud following him, but it’s trebled in size since the Trollhunters arrived. Claire is the last to leave again, and gives Steve’s shoulder a squeeze, although he’s so numb he barely feels it.

The portal closes, and Eli sweeps to his side, crouching down next to him.

Steve stays there, still staring at the floor. Eli’s helmet clicks away and his glowing eyes, wide with concern, pierce right through Steve’s chest. And Steve feels like a fraud. Nobody should look at him like that. Not after what he’s done. Especially not Eli.

That desperate tug in his chest begs to tell Eli. Tell him before things twist and warp beyond his control. But Steve’s tongue feels like it’s knotted. He can’t even bring himself to look up.

Eli doesn’t even ask again if Steve is okay. He already knows the answer.

Eli sweeps his free wing over Steve’s shoulders and back, and it’s so soft and warm. Steve looks up with a sharp intake of breath when Eli’s hand hesitantly makes its way onto the back of his.

It’s all it takes for the dam to break.

Steve sniffs, and then he sobs, and then he cries. 

And Eli hides the tears from the world under a blanket of feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be sure to leave me a comment (they honestly make my day light up) or if you're in a hurry all kudos are immensely appreciated too :D <3
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


End file.
